Quarry (9 page)

11

THE YELLOW WINDOW
went black.

“Just turned out the lights, didn’t he?”

I cocked my head and looked at Boyd. He was glancing at his wristwatch and he had a wiggly little grin going under his curly brown mustache. He was showing off: from where he was, stretched out on the davenport against the wall behind me, sipping his latest Budweiser, he couldn’t see the window that had just gone dark. But he wanted me to know what a swell job he was doing, how perfect he knew the mark’s pattern. How just checking the time he could tell me what the mark was doing. I could almost feel on my own face the heat from his semidrunken glow.

“Yeah,” I said, turning back around, keeping my back to Boyd, keeping up my vigil.

“You might as well not bother watching anymore.”

“Oh?”

“The lights won’t be on again. He won’t be going out again either. He’s got a clock built in him, this gink does. And a boring damn clock it is.”

I looked at Boyd. I sat and leaned my shoulders against the wall and folded my arms and said, slowly, “Maybe you been at this too long.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re getting sloppy.” I glanced back out the window, making a pretense of keeping up my watch on the apartment across the way, just to let Boyd know I didn’t trust his judgment anymore.

“Aw bullshit, Quarry. Bullshit. You’re the one’s been in it too long. You’re getting old and paranoid.”

“I’m getting old? Christ, you got fifteen fucking years on me, Boyd.”

“Age is a state of mind.”

“Is it.”

“It sure as hell is. Take the mark over there,” he said, gesturing toward the window, “he was a hundred years old the day he was born. He’s supposed to be thirty-five but he walks around stooped over and shambles along with his head down like he’s looking for a hole to curl up and die in. He isn’t a man, he’s a tombstone walking around.”

When he said that it was all I could do to keep from laughing. Because as he spoke he was sprawled out on the davenport, hanging loosely over its edge, like a cadaver somebody was playing a morbid ventriloquist’s joke with.

I said, “Maybe it’s time you told me something about him.”

Boyd nodded, sat up a little. “He’s thirty-five or so, like I said. No wife. No friends I seen so far. No social life whatever. Works ungodly hours, about half-time, at a plant in the part of this town they call South End.”

“What kind of plant?”

“Something to do with food. He goes there at five in the morning and gets out round ten. He spends the rest of his day walking around the downtown.”

“Every day?”

“Yeah. And don’t think I’ve enjoyed getting up at four-thirty A.M. like that gink over there. Shit.”

“What does he do in the afternoon, exactly? When he walks around downtown.”

“Oh, he’s got his little daily routine. He goes to Woolworth’s after work for his lunch. It’s about eleven when he gets there, and he beats the noon rush that way, and has the waitresses to himself. He likes to pester them, in a gentle kind of way. They laugh at him behind his back but treat him pretty decent to his face. After that he walks from Woolworth’s to the Baskin-Robbins ice cream shop out at the Port City Mall.”

“The shopping center, you mean?”

“Right.”

“Christ, that’s some walk.”

“Tell me about it. Anyway, he goes there and has a banana split, even though there’s a chubby kid behind the counter who cracks up laughing every time he walks in. But he doesn’t seem to notice, or mind anyway. When he’s through he walks back downtown. By that time it’s two-thirty. He goes to a place called Hermann’s, which is sort of a drugstore but no prescriptions. But everything else a drugstore has, from Tampax to comic books. And a fountain, where he sits and has a Coke and bothers the waitresses, who put up with him. He spends an hour there, so at three-thirty he sets out for the hospital, where he has a piece of pie at the hospital lunch counter. He enjoys himself there because the help changes every day as it’s local housewives doing volunteer work for a hospital auxiliary and so he’s treated pretty nice by them, since they’re public-service-minded and don’t have to see him day after day, like the other waitresses he comes up against. At four-fifteen he starts walking back downtown and ends up at the
Port City Journal
, where he buys a paper fresh off the presses from the coin machine out front. By four-thirty he’s back to his apartment where he goes up to read his paper or jack off or whatever. Anyway, he comes back out at six-thirty and here’s where his day gets exciting: he chooses, at random, what restaurant he’s going to eat his supper at. At random means one of four places, but I’ll give him credit for breaking pattern here, as in the week I been on his ass he’s jumped around irregular between the four.”

“What about Sunday?”

“Well, I’m only going by one Sunday, mind you, but I’d guess it’s typical for him. He goes to the Methodist church and sits in a back pew. He wears a gray sportcoat and brown pants. He goes to the drugstore there on the corner and has a soda and buys the
Chicago Tribune
and the
Des Moines Register
. He disappears into his apartment until three, when he walks out to the park to watch the Little League game at four. When that’s over he starts walking down to the stadium in South End . . . another nice walk . . . where he watches the local semipro team play a game at eight o’clock. For supper he has a hot dog at the stadium stand. And I use the word stadium loosely.”

I scratched my head. “He always walks?”

“Unless somebody offers him a ride. Which is rare.’’

“Maybe he likes to walk.”

“Maybe. Anyway he doesn’t own a car.”

“What do you suppose he does at that plant?”

“Not sure, but it’s something in the line of janitorial work or clean-up or something. He’s there in between shifts. A group works till five when he shows, and another comes in at ten when he leaves. Since it’s food preparation, maybe he cleans the big basins or whatever. I didn’t find a way to check the place out too close.”

“Is that a big plant he works at?”

“Not particularly. One-story building, kind of medium- size. About twenty on each shift, by the way.”

“I don’t get this.”

“Neither do I.”

“Who’d want to kill a nothing like this guy? Why erase a zero?”

“Ours is not to reason why.”

That was the first sensible thing Boyd had said lately and almost restored my faith in him. Almost.

I said, “You’re right, it’s none of our business who hired us and why. Maybe all the waitresses this guy bugs got together and put out a contract on him, who knows? It’s not our concern. But . . .”

“But?”

“But this whole set-up is fucked over. Like this place . . . what are you doing at a lookout where you’re cooking meals and sleeping? What are you doing inside a furnished apartment, obviously lived in, like this one?”

“Who knows? Who cares? All I know is Broker gave me the address and a key to the back door. He didn’t give me any explanation, except that it was entirely safe. He said I was to say I was subletting the apartment from . . .” He thought. “. . . well I don’t remember the name offhand, but I got it written down somewhere. Carol something, I think it was.”

Bad. Christ, Boyd was getting bad.

“Anyway, Broker said the owner of the building, and the broad I’m supposedly subletting it from, would cover for me should anybody official ask. In the meantime, naturally, I’d leave town at once and we’d scratch the hit.”

“Does anybody know you’re here?”

“Not really.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well Broker knows, and I assume whoever hired us knows.”

Standard Operating Procedure was that the identity of our employer not be known to us. There were many reasons for that, most of them obvious, most providing various kinds of protection for the employer. But it also meant that we knew nothing of the motivation behind our action.

Another part of S.O.P. was that Broker—the middleman our employer contacted—received a twenty-five per cent down payment, which was his share of the fee; later, at a designated drop point, we would pick up the balance. But only after a lookout had had time to survey the situation and decide whether or not all systems were go. Should Boyd, for example, stake-out a mark and decide the job was either impossible or just too damn risky, we would back out and Broker would return all but a minimal fee for his and our time. Once Boyd, or someone like him, gave the go-ahead for the hit, a day would be set and the employer contacted, one way or another, and the rest of the payment made.
Prior
to the actual carrying out of the assignment. Cash up front or no hit. This was my policy, at least. Mine and Boyd’s.

“Listen,” I said, “is the drop all set for our money?”

“It sure is.”

“Where?”

“It’ll be in a garbage can right out back of this place, the day we make our move.”

“Is the exact day already set?”

“Yes. I called in today.”

“Don’t you think you should have waited for me? So we could’ve decided together, like usual?”

“Aw piss, this was so cut-and-dry, Quarry. Come on. Besides, I told Broker if you had other feelings I’d call him back and tell him about change of plans, if any. You and I’ll decide that.”

“All right,” I said “But somehow I don’t like the smell of this thing, or the feel of it or something.”

“You’re paranoid.”

He looked very young right then, the curly head of hair and eyebrows and mustache pasted on, like a kid dressing up like an adult for Halloween.

I said, “Let me tell you something, Boyd.”

“What?”

“Something’s changed with you. I don’t know what it is. Your personal life maybe. I don’t know. But unless you get back to normal . . . by which I mean your normal efficient self . . . you and I, Boyd, we’re getting a divorce.”

Boyd sat up. Even in the dark I could see his face had gone white.

“We been together a long time, Quarry.”

“I know,” I said. “Maybe too long.”

12