The Wrong Quarry Read Online Free PDF Page B

put it—quarters. Not office or even room.
    “That’d be great,” I said.
    He turned off the footlights and a few others, then hit a switch that brought up subdued lighting in the audience area beyond. Soon I was following him up the slightly sloping center aisle.
    He had a towel around his neck as he led the way. “This used to be a skating rink, you know.”
    “I heard that.”
    “When I bought the building, I figured I better live here as well. To get a little bang from the buck.”
    “Ah.”
    Then we were on a slightly raised area by the double doors of the entrance. Just inside the glass doors, a ticket booth faced a coat check window. The lobby, where we stood under a single yellowish light, was modest. On either side—where kids once rented skates, and bought popcorn and pop—black walls had been dropped, home to big frames displaying posters of upcoming and past events. Doors to these facing rooms were painted black, too, even the knobs, and all but disappeared.
    He gestured to the room at our left. “That’s where I sleep.” Then he nodded to the right, before heading that way. “This is where I do business, but also relax.”
    I followed him in. The walls were a light pink, the one at my right engulfed by a many-shelved media center—high-end turntable, cassette tape player, assorted speakers, voluminous LPs, cassette tapes, pre-recorded videotapes, a 24-inch TV, a Betamax VCR. At my left was a kitchenette with cabinets, a counter, a fridge and a fifties Formica table and chairs. Tucked against the wall of the door we’d come in was an ancient rolltop desk, open to reveal stacks of bills and music and assorted paperwork, a swivel chair in attendance, overseen by an array of wall-hung framed photos of what I gathered were local dance recitals Vale had directed.
    Against the far wall was a modern brown-leather couch with a pair of matching easy chairs separated by a low-riding coffee table with a big hardcover book called Broadway Musicals. Speaking of which, over the couch hung framed posters of recent shows— Pippin, A Chorus Line, Follies, Dreamgirls . This area had a multi-color shag rug on the old wood floor. Very neat, this space was. With the exception of the desk’s clutter, it was more like the set for a play than somewhere anybody lived. But the stage was at the other end of the building, right?
    He rubbed his face with the towel, wadded and tossed it on the Formica table, and headed toward the refrigerator. “Something to drink? I have bottled water, orange juice, Diet Coke. I don’t drink alcohol, I’m afraid.”
    “Diet Coke is fine.”
    “Good choice.” He got us two cans and brought mine to me. “This is so much better than that Tab shit, don’t you think?”
    Still in my fleece-lined leather jacket, I was standing at the edge of the shag carpet. “Yeah, I could never stand that stuff,” I said, taking the can of pop.
    We were bonding now—he had said “shit” in front of me and everything.
    He gestured toward the couch and I sat, while he took the nearby overstuffed easy chair. It had a little side table with a coaster for his Diet Coke. He leaned forward, knees akimbo, folded hands draped between them. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quarry?”
    I was getting out of the coat, and as I did, I brought the nine millimeter out.
    Not surprisingly, he sat back, dark eyes no longer hooded, and his hands went up, chest high, palms out, as if I were a hold-up man.
    “You don’t need to be concerned about me,” I said pleasantly, resting the nine mil on the coffee table, then tossed the jacket on the cushion next to me. “But there’s somebody else you do need to be worried about.”
    “What the hell is the meaning of this?” His tone was hushed, with nothing even vaguely swishy in it now.
    I squinted at him. “Listen, are you a fag or what?”
    “That’s an offensive term.”
    “You’re right. I apologize. Are you?”
    “Gay? Yes. Why? What the hell does that have to do