Quarry's Vote E-Book

Max Allan Collins

• Herausgeber: Titan Books
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Seitenzahl: 277

Beschreibung

ASK NOT WHO YOU CAN KILL FOR YOUR COUNTRY Now retired and happily married, Quarry turns down a million-dollar contract to assassinate a presidential candidate. It's not the sort of assignment you can just walk away from without consequences—but coming after Quarry has consequences, too.

Leseprobe

Contents

Cover

Acclaim For the Work of Max Allan Collins!

Also by Max Allan Collins

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

Afterword

Want More Quarry?

Quarry’s Story Continues In Thrilling New Novels

Acclaim For the Work of MAX ALLAN COLLINS!

“Crime fiction aficionados are in for a treat…a neo-pulp noir classic.”

—Chicago Tribune

“No one can twist you through a maze with as much intensity and suspense as Max Allan Collins.”

—Clive Cussler

“Collins never misses a beat…All the stand-up pleasures of dime-store pulp with a beguiling level of complexity.”

—Booklist

“Collins has an outwardly artless style that conceals a great deal of art.”

—New York Times Book Review

“Max Allan Collins is the closest thing we have to a 21st-century Mickey Spillane and…will please any fan of old-school, hardboiled crime fiction.”

—This Week

“A suspenseful, wild night’s ride [from] one of the finest writers of crime fiction that the U.S. has produced.”

—Book Reporter

“This book is about as perfect a page turner as you’ll find.”

—Library Journal

“Bristling with suspense and sexuality, this book is a welcome addition to the Hard Case Crime library.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A total delight…fast, surprising, and well-told.”

—Deadly Pleasures

“Strong and compelling reading.”

—Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine

“Max Allan Collins [is] like no other writer.”

—Andrew Vachss

“Collins breaks out a really good one, knocking over the hard-boiled competition (Parker and Leonard for sure, maybe even Puzo) with a one-two punch: a feisty storyline told bittersweet and wry…nice and taut…the book is unputdownable. Never done better.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“Rippling with brutal violence and surprising sexuality…I savored every turn.”

—Bookgasm

“Masterful.”

—Jeffery Deaver

“Collins has a gift for creating low-life believable characters…a sharply focused action story that keeps the reader guessing till the slam-bang ending. A consummate thriller from one of the new masters of the genre.”

—Atlanta Journal Constitution

“For fans of the hardboiled crime novel…this is powerful and highly enjoyable reading, fast moving and very, very tough.”

—Cleveland Plain Dealer

“Entertaining…full of colorful characters…a stirring conclusion.”

—Detroit Free Press

“Collins makes it sound as though it really happened.”

—New York Daily News

“An exceptional storyteller.”

—San Diego Union Tribune

“Nobody does it better than Max Allan Collins.”

—John Lutz

“One million dollars,” he repeated.

“In regard to what?” I asked, dumbfounded and a little annoyed.

“One contract.”

“A million-dollar contract.”

He nodded, his smile confident now, not nervous at all. “One hundred thousand down. In cash. Unmarked twenties. It can be delivered to you in twenty-four hours.”

“I’m…retired.”

“I noticed you hesitate before saying so.”

“Anybody would hesitate, offered a million bucks.”

“You could go anywhere in the world. You and your wife. Nothing could touch you.”

“Don’t mention my wife again.”

“No offense meant.”

“Don’t mention her. Don’t speak of her. Or I’ll cut your fucking heart out…”

HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS BY MAX ALLAN COLLINS:

QUARRY

QUARRY’S LIST

QUARRY’S DEAL

QUARRY’S CUT

QUARRY’S VOTE

THE LAST QUARRY

THE FIRST QUARRY

QUARRY IN THE MIDDLE

QUARRY’S EX

THE WRONG QUARRY

QUARRY’S CHOICE

DEADLY BELOVED

SEDUCTION OF THE INNOCENT

TWO FOR THE MONEY

THE CONSUMMATA (with Mickey Spillane)

A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK(HCC-s06)First Hard Case Crime edition: October 2015

Published by

Titan BooksA division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd144 Southwark StreetLondon SE1 0UP

in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Copyright © 1987 by Max Allan Collins.Originally titled PRIMARY TARGET.Afterword © 2010, 2015 by Max Allan Collins.

Cover painting by Robert McGinnis

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

Print edition ISBN 978-1-78329-891-4E-book ISBN 978-1-78329-892-1

Design direction by Max Phillipswww.maxphillips.net

The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

For my co-conspiratorJim Traylor—who waited ten yearsfor Quarry to come out of retirement

“Jackie, if somebody wants to shoot me from a window with a rifle, nobody can stop it, so why worry about it?”JOHN F. KENNEDY

“I’m just a patsy. I didn’t kill anyone.”LEE HARVEY OSWALD

“I do not want to die…I was framed to kill Oswald.”JACK RUBY

1

My big mistake was allowing happiness to creep in.

It’s worse than complacency; or maybe it’s just the same goddamn thing. But for somebody like me, for somebody with my sort of past, allowing the present to lull you into happy complacency is the surest fucking way to insure you’ll have no future at all.

I met Linda when she was vacationing up at Lake Geneva, just another cute blonde among many cute college girls, many of them blond. She wore white—a white tank top that made her seem flat-chested (which she wasn’t, really) and white cut-off jeans, cut so short that the lower moons of her cute little ass showed through fringe of the cut-offs. She had china-blue eyes and short, very curly, white-blond hair, a tiny nose and the whitest teeth you ever saw; when she smiled, it was Dimples City—and you just had to like her. Or anyway I did.

I lived, at the time, in an A-frame cottage on Paradise Lake, a small, private lake with a scattering of summer homes. Paradise Lake held no truck with tourists, other than those visiting relatives in one of the cottages, and it afforded me plenty of peace, quiet and privacy. Nearby Lake Geneva, on the other hand, provided plenty of pussy, to put it bluntly, and when I first met Linda that was all she meant to me.

Maybe she made a little more impact on me than the average college girl I’d pick up, in those days; she was, after all, very innocent, or as innocent as a girl can be who goes to bed with you the day you met her. She wasn’t terribly sexually experienced, and her idea of being daring was to smoke a little dope. She didn’t strike me as terribly bright, but she was funny and cute and when she called me on the phone three months later, I remembered her almost immediately.

“Jack,” she said. “This is Linda. Remember me?”

“Sure,” I said, unsurely.

“You know. Linda.”

And the inflection in her voice brought her back to me.

“Well, Linda. Where are you calling from?”

“H-home.”

The catch in her voice, and the static on the line, sent me a message.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “And where is home, anyway?”

“Home is Indiana.”

As in back home again in.

“Okay,” I said. “Now tell me what the trouble is.”

“My folks. They’re…”

And I could hear her crying.

“Linda, what is it?” I tried to be sympathetic, fighting irritation.

“My folks were killed last week.”

“I’m sorry. What do you mean, killed?” That word meant something different to me than it might to some people.

“Automobile accident.” She swallowed. “New Year’s Eve.”

It was the first week of January. Linda’s parents were just another statistic.

“I’m sorry, kid,” I said, trying to mean it, wondering why the hell she was calling me.

“Funeral was a few days ago,” she said.

“Yes?” What did this have to do with me?

“I need to get away for a while,” she said, in a rush. “I wondered…I wondered if I could come up and spend a few days with you?”

“Well…”

I mean, Christ, she was just some one-night stand. What the hell was this about? That was all I needed, was some college girl moping around my place for a week.

“I don’t have anybody, Jack. Any-body. My friends are all back at school. My folks were all I had, except for my brother, and he headed back to San Francisco this morning. Now I’m all alone in this house and I don’t have anywhere to go.”

“Well, uh…go back to college with your friends, why don’t you? Best thing in the world for you would be get back in the swing of things.”

She paused. Then: “I flunked out. I’m not going back this semester.”

She began crying some more.

I’m not particularly soft-hearted, but I remembered her being a good kid, and who knew? Comforting her might add up to my getting laid regular for a week or so. Would that be so bad?

“You can come stay with me, kid,” I said. “Long as you need to.”

“Oh, Jack…Jack, I knew I could depend on you!”

Why?

“Why don’t you fly into Chicago,” I said, “and I’ll pick you up. At O’Hare.”

We’d made the arrangements, and she came and stayed with me for a week. Pretty soon the week turned into a month, and a year later, in a little chapel at Twin Lakes, I married the girl.

Here’s the deal. I was thirty-five. I was getting bored with one-night stands and my own microwave cooking. I wanted some company, and she seemed pleasant enough. She talked too much, but most people do. She was beautiful, a terrific cook, and she kept out of my way. What more could I ask?

For many years the notion of living with one woman was out of the question for me. I was in the wrong business to accommodate what Donahue and the women’s magazines would refer to as a “relationship.” But that business was behind me. I had retired, after socking away a hell of a nest egg. I could live off my investments, one of which was an oddball business called Wilma’s Welcome Inn which was just five minutes from my A-frame.

The Welcome Inn was a rambling two-story affair left over from another era—gas station, restaurant, convenience store, and hotel sharing one somewhat ramshackle roof. It struck some chord in me, reminded me of something from my childhood, a place I’d gone with my parents I think. Anyway, I liked the place, for no good reason, and I also liked the gal who ran the place, Wilma.

But Wilma—a nice fat woman who made great chili—died a few years ago, leaving the place in the unsteady hands of her boyfriend/bartender Charley. He was having trouble keeping the business afloat without his porky pillar, and Wilma’s niece, a zaftig babe in her late teens who wanted nothing to do with the business except for any money it generated, was not happy with Charley letting things slip; she was threatening to can the ex-con and sell the joint. So I bought it from the girl (who used the dough to stake herself to a move out to California, where she planned to break into the movies—right) and kept Charley on.

When I was a kid back in Ohio, I tinkered around with cars and had worked in a garage when I was in high school and junior college; so I was able to get the gas station on its feet easily enough. I’m also fairly handy with a hammer and nails and paint brushes and such and was able to do some remodeling, make the Welcome Inn less ramshackle, though rambling it would always be. At first I hired a woman away from a place in Lake Geneva to handle the hotel and restaurant, but she was a smart-ass, and eventually Linda took over.

Linda was no rocket scientist (I handled the books) but people liked her, staff and customers both, and she was damn near as good a cook as Wilma had been.

So my life had settled into something not unlike normalcy. The vacation center we were a part of lent itself to water sports in the summer and skiing in the winter and there was plenty to do, including make a little dough at Wilma’s Welcome Inn.

Both Linda and me got pudgy. Mine came from too much of her cooking, both at home and at the Welcome Inn, and from a general laziness—I ran the Inn like any good executive, delegating responsibility and filling my own life with relaxation. I listened to my stereo (Tony Bennett, Peggy Lee, Mel Torme) and read paperback westerns (they engaged my brain without taxing it) and watched old movies on TV (we had a satellite dish) and generally lived a life of leisure, acquiring the spare tire that went with it.

Linda’s extra weight came from another source: my dick.

“You’re pregnant?” I said.

“You sound…disappointed…or mad or something.”

“Well, hell—how should I sound?”

We were discussing this at the A-frame, sitting out on the porch in deck chairs, looking out at a lake bathed in moonlight. Her eyes were a similar color—washed-out blue. I really liked the color of her eyes.

“You should sound happy,” she said. Her eyes were tensing.

We hardly ever argued. In fact, I can’t remember arguing with her. Sometimes I got mad at her when she was a little thick about some business aspect at the Inn, but when all was said and done, I cared more about her than any of that other shit, so I tended to cut her some slack. I mean, fuck, I didn’t need the money. The Inn was just something to do.

“Happy isn’t my style,” I said.

“Sure it is,” she said, and she got up and sat in my lap and smiled at me, dimples and all, though I could tell she was still sad.

“You want to break this damn chair?” I said.

She just smiled some more and hugged me around the neck and said, “I’m not that heavy yet. I’m only a month or so gone.”

And she was a little thing, after all. I bet she didn’t weigh a hundred pounds.

“I thought you were using something,” I said.

“I was. I stopped.”

“We should have talked about it.”

“I thought you’d want a child with me. You said so once.”

“I was drunk. And you know I don’t drink, and when I do, I can’t be held responsible.”

“Well, you’re responsible for this,” she said, and patted her tummy, and her smile shifted to one side of her face, crinkling it.

Goddamnit, there’s no way around it: I did love her, or as close to it as I’m capable.

I said, “If I was going to have a child, I’d want it with you.”

“Well, I should hope to shout. I’m your wife, aren’t I?”

“Only one I ever had,” I said, which was a lie. I was married one other time, but that was in another life, the life she didn’t know about.

“We’ll be a family,” she said sweetly. “Won’t that be wonderful?”

This girl thought life was a fucking Christmas card.

“Linda, I don’t know about bringing anybody else into this goddamn place.”

She looked confused. “What goddamn place?”

“This world. This planet. It’s no prize.”

“Our life isn’t so bad, is it?”

“We have a great life.”

“So, why not let a third person in on it? A person who’s part of us, Jack…”

I shook my head. “You don’t understand, kid. This is a very protected life we got going here. We’re the couple in the plastic bubble—nothing touches us. But a kid—he’s going to have to go out in that world and face all the bullshit.”

“How do you know it’s going to be a he? And what’s wrong with going out in the world?”

“For one thing, it’s crawling with people.”

“I like people!”

“I don’t. I’m not so sure pulling another passenger onto this sinking ship is such a hot idea. What’s he got waiting for him? Or, her?”

She gave me a sideways look, trying to kid me out of it. “Don’t be such a Gloomy Gus.”

“Read the papers. They’re full of famine and AIDS and nuclear bombs.”

“Jack, you don’t read the papers.”

“Well, hell, I watch TV. And I’ve been out in that world, baby. It sucks.”

“I don’t know why you feel that way.”

“Well I do.”

“Why? Have you had it so bad?”

“Not lately.”

She cocked her head, gave me a smirky, pixie look. “When did you ever have it bad?”

I tasted my tongue.

“I never mentioned it before…”

Her eyes narrowed. “What, Jack?”

“I…I saw some combat.”

“Combat? Where?”

“Where do you think? In the war.”

“What war?”

I sighed. “Vietnam, dear. A distant event in history that happened during your childhood. Let’s just say…I’m not wild about bringing somebody into this life when Vietnams are still a part of it—and they are.”

She looked very troubled. She was sweet but she wasn’t deep. “I never heard you talk like this.”

“Sure you have.”

“Not so serious, at such length. I…always thought it was a joke, the things you say, the way you see things. You always made me laugh. It was just, you know…sick humor.”

“Defense mechanism.”

“What…what makes life worth living then?”

She was really getting upset; I decided to smile at her. Said, “Life’s worth living as long as somebody like you’s in it.”

She beamed and hugged me.

I held her for a while. Listened to the crickets.

Then she drew away and said, “Jack, you don’t really…you wouldn’t have me get…rid of it, would you?”

Her lip was trembling and her china-blue eyes were wetter than the goddamn lake.

What else was there to say?

“Of course not,” I said. “What do you think I am? A murderer?”

2

I was chopping wood, which was about as physical as my life got these days. The lake was placid and blue, surrounded by trees painted in golds and yellows and browns; the water reflected a soothing Indian summer sun. You could almost understand why somebody, long ago, chose to name the lake Paradise. There weren’t even any mosquitoes this time of year.

I swung the axe in my two hands, building a rhythm, liking the pull on my muscles, enjoying the sweat I was working up, feeling alive. Wood chips flew and logs became firewood. When Linda got back from her yoga class at Twin Lakes, I’d prepare supper (still had a microwave) and the wine would be chilled and we’d sit before the fireplace and be “toasty warm” (as she put it) together. We would also undoubtedly have great sex, one of the major reasons I kept the ditsy little dish around.

Feeling winded but good, I sat out on the deck and unzipped my down jacket and relaxed with a cup of coffee. I was watching the lake when a cloud covered the sun and the gravel in my driveway stirred.

A chocolate BMW pulled abruptly up, making a little dust storm. I did not recognize the car—other than as the pointless and drab status symbol it was. I stood. My shoulders tensed and it had nothing to do with chopping wood.

From the edge of the deck I noticed two things: the driver of the car, a slightly heavyset man of about fifty in a London Fog raincoat; and the front license plate of the BMW, which was covered with mud. There hadn’t been any rain in the Midwest for several weeks.

He saw me perched above him on the deck. My expression must have been hostile because he smiled tightly, defensively, and put both hands out, palms forward, in a stop motion.

“Just a few minutes of your time,” he said, “that’s all I ask.”

He had a mellow, radio-announcer’s voice and a conventionally handsome, well-lined face, a Marlboro man who rode a desk.

“Whatever you’re selling, I’m not buying.”

His smile twitched nervously. “I’m not a salesman, but I am here on business.”

I motioned off toward the highway. “Talk to Charley up at the Inn. If he can’t handle it, make an appointment to see me, there, later. I don’t do business at home.”

“This doesn’t have anything to do with the restaurant business, Mr. Quarry.”

I said nothing. A bird cawed across the lake. My sentiments exactly.

“I, uh, realize that isn’t the name you’re using around here…”

“Explain yourself.”

The outstretched hands went palms up, supplicatingly. “Please. There’s no reason to get your back up. There’s no obligation…”

“You sound like a salesman.”

“Your wife won’t be home for another hour. I didn’t want to bother you while she was here…”

Mention of Linda made me wince; this guy, whoever the fuck he was, knew entirely too much about me. He didn’t know how close he was to spending eternity at the bottom of one of the area’s scenic gravel pits.

“Come up here and have a seat,” I said.

He smiled tightly again, nodded, and came around and up the stairs.

I sat in one of the lounge-style deck chairs, legs stretched out, and he took one of the director-style chairs and pulled it up near me. His salt-and-pepper hair was heavy on the salt and thinning a little, though some fancy styling minimized it; you could buy a week’s groceries for what he spent on that haircut. He smelled of cologne—some expensive fragrance, strong enough to blot out that of the pines around us.

“May I smoke?” he asked.

“It’s your lungs.”

He lit up—something unfiltered from a flat silver case drawn out from under the London Fog; I had a glimpse of dark, vested, well-tailored suit with blue striped silk tie.

“I know this is an intrusion,” he said, deferential as all hell, “but I think, when everything is said and done, you’ll be pleased. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.”

“Does this have anything to do with Amway?”

A short, harsh, nervous laugh preceded his response: “Hardly, Mr. Quarry. This is more on the order of…Publishers Clearing House.” The constant if slight smile turned wry, smug. “Mr. Quarry, I’m in a position to make you a very wealthy man.”

“Drop the name, all right? I haven’t used that in almost ten years.”

He made a small open-hand gesture. “A man known as the Broker gave it to you, a long time ago.”

“That’s right.” I looked at him, locked his eyes. They were gray, like his cigarette smoke. “What else do you know about me?”

His smile faded, and he shrugged facially. “I know that you were a hero. That you served your country honorably and well.”

“Yeah, right. Is there more?”

“I known that you were married once before. You returned from a tour of duty in Vietnam to discover your wife had been untrue.”

“Untrue? I found her in bed sitting on a guy’s dick.”

“You killed him.”

I shrugged. “Not on the spot. I came back the next day, after I cooled off, and he was under his sporty little car, making some minor repairs. I made one, too.”

“You kicked the jack out.”

I shrugged again. “He called me a ‘bunghole.’ What would you do?”

“You were arrested.”

“But not tried, except in the papers.”

“The unwritten law.”

“There are two times society puts up with murder.”

“War is one,” he said, nodding.

“Finding somebody fucking your wife is the other.”

He gestured with cigarette in hand. “Nonetheless, you were looked down upon in certain quarters.”

“I had trouble finding work. I was a Vietnam vet, remember? We were all assumed to be unreliable dope addicts. And I was a ‘disturbed Viet vet’ before it was fashionable. Before it was a cliche even.”

I killed a guy, after all. Nobody minded the numerous yellow people I killed for no good reason. The one white asshole I killed for a good reason got people bent out of shape.

“Shortly after that,” he said, carefully, quietly, the gray eyes studying me but pretending not to, through a haze of cigarette smoke, “you met the Broker.”

“Did I?”

“I don’t know the circumstances, but you began taking contracts. Working as part of a team.”

Did I mention I had brought the axe up on the porch with me? Well, I had. It was leaned up against the front of the house, near the door. Not far away at all.

“Are you sure,” I said, with a gentle smile, “that you want to keep this line of conversation going?”

“I just want you to know that I’m familiar with your background.”

“Why?”

“Because I have a contract for you.”

“I’m not in that line of work anymore.”

“Mr. Quarry, you are an assassin. It’s not something you can leave behind.”

I nodded. “Well, I’m willing to kill again, under certain circumstances.”

“Such as?”

“Assholes coming around fucking in my life.”

He smiled again, another tight nervous twitch, and he said, “I’m not here to make trouble in your life. I’m here to improve your life.”

“Say it. Whatever it is you’ve got to say, say it.”

“Mr. Quarry, this isn’t something one can…”

“Say it. I sat through ‘This Is Your Life’ patiently enough, but now the show’s over. Cut to the commercial.”

He cleared his throat, as if about to make a speech. Maybe he was. “You are said to have been the best at what you do. But you dropped out.”

“I dropped out. My partner bought it, the Broker bought it, and I dropped out. Say what you came to say.”

He let the cigarette fall to the deck and ground it out with his heel.

Then he said: “One million dollars.”

There’s only one thing you can say when somebody says that, and I said it: “What?”

“One million dollars,” he repeated.

“In regard to what?” I asked, dumbfounded and a little annoyed.

“One contract.”

“A million-dollar contract.”

He nodded, his smile confident now, not nervous at all. “One hundred thousand down. In cash. Unmarked twenties. It can be delivered to you in twenty-four hours.”

“I’m…retired.”

“I noticed you hesitate before saying so.”

“Anybody would hesitate, offered a million bucks.”

“You could go anywhere in the world. You and your wife. Nothing could touch you.”

“Don’t mention my wife again.”

“No offense meant.”

“Don’t mention her. Don’t speak of her. Or I’ll cut your fucking heart out.”

He swallowed and nodded. He’d noticed the axe.

“I just wanted to emphasize what a rosy future you could paint for yourself with that kind of money.”

“I don’t believe in the future, and I don’t give a fuck about the past. And my present is rosy as fucking hell. So why don’t you just go away.”

“Mr. Quarry, it’s a million dollars.”

“I know it is. But…I’m retired. What do I need with it?”

“One job. One simple job.”

“I doubt it would be simple.”

“You’d be surprised.”

I stood. I walked to the edge of the deck and looked out at the lake. The sun was still under a cloud and a light breeze was blowing in. The water looked gray. I was going to have a son, or a daughter, before long. With my past, maybe it would be a good thing to get out of this country. With a million bucks you could live like a king in Mexico or South America. Maybe on a beach, the ocean your front yard. A protected life. A safe life for me and mine. In a year, I would be forty years old.

I turned and looked at him. “What’s the contract?”

“Have you heard of Preston Freed?”

“I’ve heard the name…he’s some sort of right-wing loon, isn’t he?”

His face cracked with the first of his many smiles to reveal teeth; too white and too perfect to be real.

He rose and walked over to me. “That’s exactly what he is,” he said, folding his arms, seeming at ease with me for the first time. I’d have to do something about that. “He is the founder and leader of the Democratic Action Party.”

I made a sound in my throat that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Just another one of these homegrown would-be Hitlers.”

He shook his head no. “He’s not a Nazi. His politics are a grab-bag mixture of extreme right and extreme left, but he’s relatively young and genuinely charismatic, a Kennedy of the lunatic fringe if you will…and he’s gathering real momentum for his movement. Do you follow the political scene in the papers?”

“I catch it on TV. But, look…”

He raised a hand in a gentle stop motion. “Freed has several key issues that have rallied conservatives around him—he’s strongly anti-abortion and pro-school prayer, for instance. That’s all some people need to hear.”

“I suppose, but…”

“You don’t have to know much about politics to understand that the coming presidential election will be a volatile one. We have a once popular, now somewhat tarnished president ending his two terms in office. Supposedly a conservative, this man has raised the national debt to a record high.”

“Politics don’t interest me.”

“Even so, we are coming into a fascinating election year. The two parties—depending upon whom they choose as their standard bearers of course—should be in for a real battle. Think of it: the highest office in the land up for grabs…we could have a true conservative in the White House, or our most liberal president in years…”

“What does this have to do with anything? If this contract is political, you can really forget it.”

His gray eyes pleaded with me, his brow knitting a goddamn sock. “Mr. Quarry, Preston Freed is a presidential ‘spoiler’ in the truest sense. The way his movement, his ‘party,’ is gathering steam, he will throw the entire election off kilter.”

“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know much about it, and I don’t want to, either.”

“At this point, it is hard to say whether the Democrats or the Republicans would suffer the most, but…”

“I think you should leave. This is a civics lesson that I just don’t want to hear.”

“I represent a certain group of private citizens, responsible, powerful, patriotic citizens, who want Preston Freed stopped. Who want the natural order of our political system restored, and this madman—this potential American Hitler, as you aptly described him—destroyed like the rabid animal he is.”

“That’s very colorful, but I don’t do politicals. I don’t do any contracts anymore, as I tried to make clear…and I shouldn’t have let you get into this at all.”

“Mr. Quarry…”

“I don’t do windows, and I don’t do politicals.”

“Why not?”

“You can offer me two million and I’d turn you down.”

He was astounded; shaking his head. “Why, do you think it would be difficult to get near the candidate? True, Freed is somewhat reclusive, but with the first primary in January, there’ll be plenty of opportunities, starting with a major press conference next month, which…”

“Stop. It’s not hard to kill a politician. It’s the easiest thing there is. You got a public figure, an egomaniac who thinks he’s immortal, going out kissing babies and shaking hands and it’s the easiest hit in the world.”

“Then what is your objection?”

“I wouldn’t live to spend the money.”

“Are you implying that…”

“That you would have me killed? Why, I don’t know what got into me. You and your concerned patriotic citizens wouldn’t think of being party to murder, now would you?”

“Mr. Quarry, we are men of honor.”

“Sure. I’d be an instant loose end, pal. You don’t get away with shooting presidents or even would-be presidents. Oh, the guys who hire you can get away with it. In fact they always do. That’s ’cause the poor bastard who squeezed the trigger is either dead or locked in a cell and written off as a madman.”

“I assure you…”

“I’m retired. I don’t want to get back in the business, not even once, not even for your big bucks. This is a real good place to call a halt to this conversation…I still don’t know your name, and that’s how I like it.”

“You won’t reconsider?”

“No. And I don’t want to see you again. You know far too much about me. I ought to kill you on general principles.”

He sucked breath in, hard; till now, talk of death had seemed abstract to him, I’m sure. “But…but you won’t.”

“Not unless I see you again.”

He nodded, sighed, extended his hand for me to shake. I ignored it.

Withdrawing the hand, he smiled gently and said, “No hard feelings, Mr. Quarry. It’s too bad. I think you’d have been the right man for the job.”

I didn’t say anything.

His smile disappeared and, shortly, so did he, in a cloud of gravel dust; the BMW’s back license plate was covered with mud as well.

I went inside and started a fire.

I sat before the glow of it, by the metal conical fireplace in one corner of the A-frame’s living room, and waited for Linda, wondering if I should’ve killed the son of a bitch.