Quarry in the Black by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online Page B

well.”
    “What?”
    “Humiliating people.”
    And I gave her a nice big smile, and a quick salute. “I’ll just be going…”
    “No! Excuse me. Sorry!
Young man!
”
    I was already out on the sidewalk. But I was waiting, zipping up my windbreaker to make it look like I was doing something.
    Then she was at my side. She was as tall as I was. Or anyway in those platform shoes she was.
    “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she said, and sounded sincere enough.
    “I’m not any younger than you.”
    “Huh?”
    “You said, ‘Young man.’ Actually, you said, ‘Young man!’ Kind of like my third-grade teacher, who you remind me of a little, only her big hair was gray.”
    She just stared at me, like I’d thrown cold water in her face.
    Then she started to laugh. Hard enough that she grabbed onto my sleeve. I am one fucking charmer.
    Then, her laughter gone, replaced by mild embarrassment, she let go of my sleeve but stood fairly close. She had on a perfume I never smelled before, and it was nice. Spicy.
    “I’m sorry,” she said. “We’re very busy right now, a lot going on, and I…didn’t meant to be rude.”
    “No problem.”
    “Thank you. Shall we start over?”
    “Why don’t we skip the pleasantries and go right to where you sit at your desk and I sit in that empty chair alongside it, and you ask me all about myself?”
    So we did that.
    I told her my name was John Blake and that I’d been stateside for about two years following three tours in Vietnam, where I’d won the Bronze Star. That I’d joined Vietnam Veterans Against the War and participated in lots of demonstrations, everything from small protests to Operation RAW (Rapid American Withdrawal).
    “I was never a paid staffer,” I told her. “Just another grunt. I inherited my folks’ farm in Idaho and sold it, so I’m still fairly flush. I can afford to indulge my conscience for a while.”
    She was nodding, listening intently, really buying in. “Why did you leave VVAW?”
    I shrugged. “Membership is shrinking. With the Paris Peace Talks and all, a lot of guys figured they’d made their point, and booked it. Felt we’d won the peace in a war that didn’t give us many victories.”
    “And what brought you to us?”
    “I’m an admirer of Reverend Lloyd. And when I heard he was out drumming up votes for George McGovern, well, hell…I figured, I’m in.”
    “Staunch McGovern man?”
    The only reason I would have voted for McGovern, if I bothered voting (which I never did), was that any asshole off the street would be better than Tricky Dick.
    “Oh yes,” I said. “He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross, you know. He’s no pacifist. He understands military men, and knows how badly we were used.”
    She’d been taking some notes with a pencil on a yellow pad, but now she was tapping the eraser end on the desktop, studying me like a menu item that sounded too good to be true. But she was hungry enough to take a chance.
    “Mr. Blake,” she said, starting to rise, “could you wait here a moment?”
    “Sure. And it’s Jack.”
    She smiled. My God, she was lovely. Like a Swedish girl dipped in milk chocolate. Down boy.
    “And I’m Ruth. Ruth Wright.”
    “Hi Ruth.”
    “Hello, Jack.”
    She went off and I made a point of not checking out her ass, wanting to make a good impression. Just the same, I felt eyes come up for momentary appraisals, the suspicion in here like the heat up a notch too high. Funny thing, none of those skeptical glances came from the black staffers, only the white ones. Scratch a hippie and find a selfish spoiled brat, I always say. Well, not out loud.
    One black staffer was a little older, mid-thirties anyway. He was tall, skinny, pockmarked. He was drifting around the room, either loafing or supervising. It’s hard to tell the difference.
    Then Ruth was walking briskly toward me down the central aisle between desks—which otherwise were arranged in a scattered way, since being uptight was a