Quarry's Choice Read Free Page B

a turret gun on a ship’s deck. A .45, I’d bet.
    But I had taken the Broker down to the pavement, even before the thunder of it shook the night and my nine millimeter was out from under my left arm and I was shooting back at the bastard just as a second shot rocketed past me, eating some metal and glass, close enough for me to feel the wind of it but not touching me, and I put two holes in that grimace, both in the forehead, above either eye, and blood was welling down over his eyes like scarlet tears as the big vehicle tore out.
    The last thing I saw was his expression, the expression of a screaming man, but he wasn’t screaming, because he was dead. And dead men not only don’t tell tales, they don’t make any fucking sound, including screams.
    I didn’t chase them. Killing the shooter was enough. Maybe too much.
    The Broker, looking alarmed, said something goddamned goofy to me, as I was hauling him up. “You wore a gun to dinner with me? Are you insane, man? This is neutral territory.”
    “Tell those assholes,” I said, “and by the way—you’re welcome.”
    He was unsteady on his feet.
    The desk manager came rushing out and the Broker glanced back and shouted, “Nothing to see here! Children with cherry bombs. Franklin, keep everybody inside.”
    Franklin, an efficient little guy in a vest and bow tie (more riverboat shit), rounded up the curious, handing out drink chits.
    There was a stone bench near the double doors and I sat Broker down on it and plopped beside him.
    “You okay?” I asked.
    He looked blister pale. “My dignity is bruised.”
    “Well, it doesn’t show in those pants. I killed the shooter.”
    “Good. That should send a message.”
    “Yeah, but who to? And if you correct me with ‘to whom,’ I’ll shoot you myself.”
    He frowned at me, more confusion than displeasure. “Did you get the license?”
    “Not the number. Mississippi plates, though.”
    That seemed to pale him further. “Oh dear.”
    Oh dear, huh? Must be bad.
    “Somebody may call the cops,” I said. “Not everybody who heard that, and maybe saw it, is in having free drinks right now.”
    He nodded. “You need to leave. Now.”
    “No argument.” I had already put the gun away. They weren’t coming back, not with a guy shot twice in the face they weren’t. Anyway, by now “they” was one guy, driving a big buggy into a night that was just getting darker.
    I patted him on the shoulder. That was about as friendly as we’d ever got. “Sure you’re okay?”
    “I’m fine. I’ll handle this. Go.”
    I went, and the night I was driving into was getting darker, too. But I had the nine millimeter on the rider’s seat to keep me company. That and my “Who’s Next” eight-track.

TWO
    Early spring in my neck of the woods is a pleasure. “My neck of the woods” isn’t just a saying, it’s literal: I owned an A-frame cottage on Paradise Lake, a shimmering blue jewel nestled in a luxuriantly green setting. In a few weeks, Spring Break would fuck that up, sending college students swarming into nearby Lake Geneva. It’s a harbinger of summer to come, only with a nasty frantic edge that wouldn’t kick in again till late August. Girls in their late teens and early twenties in bikinis are fine by me, but not when they smell of beer puke.
    This is not to say that I wouldn’t be taking advantage of the impending (how shall I delicately put it?) influx of sweet young pussy. I still looked like a college student myself, and had learned enough from books and TV to pass for one. So if I could connect with some cupcake looking to make a memory, why not help her out? Assuming, of course, I could manage that before she got shit-faced. Hey, I’m just that kind of guy.
    But really the kind of guy I am is one who prefers hardly any people around. My circle of friends was limited to a few employees and regulars of Wilma’s Welcome Inn, a cheerfully ramshackle lodge with a tavern and convenience store, within walking