Part 9 (2/2)
”Say your gun jammed, anything.”
Slowly he nodded. ”I could do that. This rod of mine's a foreign heater, a little Beretta. It jammed once before when we was target practicin'.” He paused. ”But you'll have to pound on me a little, won't you?”
”Well . . . I don't know about that. I don't want to - ”
”You don't get it. I want you to pound me. Beat h.e.l.l out of me. If I ain't a mess, Frank won't believe it.”
”We'll see. For now, just keep talking.”
He told me more of interest, some of it even good enough to give Quinn a great deal of trouble if Jay were willing to go into court with the same testimony - which, of course, he decidedly was not willing to do, not even if I had color movies of him, he said; his consuming desire was to stay alive, and testifying would get him killed just as dead.
His face took on the same lugubrious expression which had captured his features earlier when he'd cried out, ”It wouldn't be worth it!” and he said to me, ”No matter what, I'm gonna get killed. She'll kill me, or you'll kill me, or he'll kill me - or maybe even I'll kill me. Scott, of all the miserable ways to stab me you couldn't of picked a worse one. How did I get in such a mess? How? How?” He paused, shaking his head. ”It ain't only I can't afford to let Frank - you know. But I am sick of Maude.” He started sort of moaning. ”Boy, am I sick.”
”Maude?”
”Yeah, Maude. Maude Quinn, who else?”
”Maude Quinn? You're sick of her?”
”Sick-sick-sick! You don't know - that face of hers, like a old mud fence, is startin' to haunt me nights. At first I didn't even see it, you know? But now - ah, I couldn't tell you. I can't do nothing about it. If I tried to drop her she'd tell Frank to kill me. And he'd do it. If he didn't, some night she'd . . . ah. Oh. Gah. You and your G.o.ddam pictures.”
Finally, after Jay had promised to phone me at my apartment if anything at all of interest occurred when he got back to the ranch, I decided to leave. We got out of the car and stood facing each other.
”O.K.,” he said after a few seconds. ”Pop me.”
I balled up my right fist, then relaxed. ”Jay, I can't do it. I can't just haul off and sock you.”
I have not the slightest reservation about slamming characters who are giving me a bad time, but simply to pound on a guy who stood there asking for it was beyond me.
”Nuts,” Jay said. ”I'll just have to do it myself somehow. Ah, come on, sock me.”
”No.”
”Please.”
It was pretty silly. I almost had to chuckle at the thought of one of Frank Quinn's hoodlums begging me to pop him, but right then Jay raised his voice and yelled at me.
”You lousy b.a.s.t.a.r.d, you G.o.ddam filthy-picture peddler, you creep! So you won't pop me, huh?” And he hauled off and socked me in the eye.
It just happened, the old nerve patterns going automatically into action, and my left hand zipped up, becoming a hard, h.o.r.n.y fist on the way, and bounced off Jay's chops, and I was leaning over him with my right hand high, stretched open, the thick blade of my palm almost on its way down to hack at his skull like a cleaver - when I managed to call everything to a halt.
Jay was sliding down the side of the car, slowly, his knees bending like elastic hinges, and he went all the way down onto his hind end and said, ”Blah,” or something like that. Then, sort of creakingly, he got to his feet.
”That ought to do it,” he said. ”That was a good one. Yeah, I think that's enough.”
”Sorry,” I said. ”I didn't think - ”
”'Sall right, Scott. That was a good one. Yeah, that's enough, I think.”
He climbed into the Thunderbird and looked into the rearview mirror, climbed out again. ”You got my eye fine,” he said. ”But Frank still won't believe it.”
”Jay, don't take another poke - ”
”No.” He shook his head. ”You was going to kill me, wasn't you?”
”I didn't even think - ”
”I seen your face. It looked like you was going to eat me.” He paused. ”But I guess that'll do it, I hope.”
I said, ”O.K., if you'll drop me off in town - ”
”No, sir. I'll walk or hitch a ride - you take the T-bird. n.o.body's going to see me with you. Besides, if you knocked me out, you'd take the heap, wouldn't you?”
”Yeah, that's right. O.K. But don't forget to shake Quinn up good. Tell him I'm going to blow everything wide open - tomorrow. Tell him I know the whole bit, how he shot Flagg, had Heigman drowned . . .” I stopped. ”What about Weiss?”
”What do you mean, what about him?”
”Did Quinn kill him?”
”Sure. That is, he had the boys do it.”
”How?”
”Well, for a week or so before then, Frank was getting leery about maybe Weiss might spill his guts - he'd quit his job for one thing - so he had him followed. Weiss got out of line somehow, and Frank had the boys bring him out to the ranch last Friday night. They wrapped him in blankets and tied a rope around him and made him run along behind a car till he flopped. Then they did it again. Finally he just keeled over and kicked off.” Jay gently fingered his eye. ”The toughest part was getting him into his hotel again, but they managed to sneak him in the back way, while it was still dark.”
I shook my head. ”What a lovely group you mingle with.”
”He had a bad heart, you know.”
”Yeah. That's what he died of. Heart failure.”
I was quiet for a few seconds, then said, my voice soft, ”Now tell me about Lolita, Jay.”
His eyes flickered. ”What you mean, Scott?”
”You know what I mean. Now tell me.”
He swallowed. ”Well, uh, Heigman and Weiss and the Lopez chick was the only three what might've put a squeeze on Frank. And with Miller so near going, and you stirring up a h.e.l.l of a storm the last couple days, which got Frank plenty worried - ”
”I know she's dead. Just tell me who did it.”
”You won't - you won't be able to prove nothin'.”
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