Quarry's Deal by Max Allan Collins Read Free Book Online

panties. That’s all. She’d left a light on in the bathroom, and left the door open a crack, but otherwise it was dark in there. Still, I could see just fine. Subdued lighting can do nice things to a naked body. Nearly naked.
    She was a study in dark and light contrast: dark Florida tan against the untanned flesh where her bikini had been, dark nipples against otherwise white breasts, dark pubic bush against the whiteness of her loins.
    She was an architectural wonder, this girl. One day, if she lived long enough, those massive breasts would have to droop. Gravity, like death, is inevitable. But right now she and her high, huge breasts were alive and well in Des Moines, Iowa.
    “Sorry I was such bad company, on the way here,” she said, stretching out on her stomach on the bed, cupping her chin with one long-nailed hand, the dark blue, gold-flecked eyes with their oriental slant catching what little light there was and making electricity out of it.
    “Bad company?”
    “Yes. I’m afraid I slept all the way.”
    And she had, head against my shoulder, for the whole thirty-minute ride from the Barn to the east side of Des Moines where this apartment was.
    “You didn’t snore,” I said.
    “I never snore.”
    “Neither do I.”
    “I want you to know something.”
    “Okay. What is it?”
    “I don’t usually do this kind of thing. I want you to know that.”
    “Do what kind of thing?”
    “You know. Fuck on the first date.”
    “How do you know we’re going to?”
    “Just a hunch.”
    “You may be right. But right now I’m going to drink this Sanka.”
    “See.”
    “See what?”
    “You do think I do this kind of thing all the time.”
    “If I said something, I’m sorry.”
    “You didn’t say anything. It was how you said it.’’
    “I’ll pretend I understand that. I’m done with my Sanka.”
    “Well, I’m just starting mine.”
    “I’ll wait.”
    “What the fuck’s your name, anyway?”
    “Jack.”
    “You already know my name.”
    “Lucille. Lucy?”
    “Lucille.”
    “Lucille, then. How’d you get in the bartending business, Lucille?”
    “I had a husband who owned a nightclub in Detroit. He thought it was good psychology to have a good-looking woman tending bar. Also it was cheaper, since he was married to me and didn’t have to pay me.”
    “Had a husband?”
    “That’s right.”
    “Divorced?”
    “No. They killed him.”
    “They?”
    “Some mob people.”
    “No kidding?”
    “Yeah. They were his silent partners and he was screwing them. They warned him and he didn’t listen. It was his fault, really.”
    “You have a pretty cool attitude about it.”
    “Not cool. Cold. I loved the little prick in the beginning. He was older than me, I was just a waitress in his place, impressed by the boss making advances. He had a wife at the time, who he dumped for me. He was really a little prick. But I was impressionable. Didn’t finish high school, that sort of thing. Never had anything going for me but my looks. So much for me. How about you?”
    “Well. I could tell you about the time I came home from Vietnam and found my wife in bed with a guy. Or we could forget about the sad stories and fuck.”
    “Good idea,” she said.

 
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
    11
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    SHE WAS GONE when I woke up. On the coffee table was a note: “Jack—you looked too restful to wake. Had a hair appointment and some other errands. Orange juice in the fridge. If you’re still in town, stop at the Barn tonight. If you want. L.”
    I had a shower and got dressed, had some orange juice, and looked around the place a little.
    But carefully. I didn’t pick anything up or look inside anything. Don’t think it wasn’t a temptation to get in that suitcase over in the corner, or to go through the double-door closet or through the drawers of the tiny dresser in the