Quarry in the Middle by Max Allan Collins

Paddlewheel would be a very, very poor idea.”
    “Of course it would. You’re doing land-office business, sure, which means a good payday for a score. But taking down a place that attracts a Wednesday night crowd like this? Calls for a D-Day Invasion.”
    He wasn’t sure what to make of that. His eyes tightenedas he drew in smoke, held it so long it might have been marijuana, and let it out. Even in the dim nightclub light, you could see his face was as cracked and leathery as it was handsome.
    Then he said, “Whatever you have in mind, mate, ponder this—I am connected to individuals in Chicago who would not rest until anyone who tried anything against this facility was apprehended. And by apprehended, I mean castrated, fed their genitals and dumped in the river.”
    “Concrete overshoes?”
    “Some fashions never go out of style.”
    “That’d be the Giardelli family, I suppose.”
    That surprised him, his nostrils flaring, though the eyes remained half-lidded. He said nothing.
    I shook my head, laughed a little. “I’m not an advance man for a plunder squad. Get real, Dickie.”
    “…Only my friends call me ‘Dickie.’ ”
    “Oh, we’re going to be friends. You see, I’ve done work, off and on, myself for the Giardellis. Checking up on me would be tricky, though, because I worked through a middleman and he’s dead now. But I can give you chapter and verse on mutual acquaintances.”
    He set the cigarette in the glass tray. “If you’re a federal agent, Mr. Gibson, I’m asking you to declare yourself, right now. Or we’ll be talking entrapment.”
    “Oh, we’re talking entrapment, all right. Anyway, the fix your Chicago friends put in must go at least up into the lower federal rungs. You don’t open up a casino because you have the county sheriff in your pocket. This has to go way higher.”
    “What kind of middleman?”
    He’d been thinking. He might even have figured it out.
    “I used to do contract work.”
    “Used to?”
    “Now I’m more in…preventive maintenance.”
    “What kind of…preventive maintenance?”
    “Helping people like you stay alive.”
    “Why would I need your help to stay alive?”
    “Because other people still do contract work.”
    He was staring at me, the eyes wider now, though more alert than scared. He got it. He followed.
    “I’m not wearing a wire,” I said. “And I don’t have a weapon on me. You can have one of your musclemen frisk me, if they can bend over that far.”
    He had another sip of the Scotch. And another.
    He checked his watch, mumbled to himself, “It’s after two…” Then he said, “Maybe we should talk privately.”
    “Maybe we should,” I said.
    The “after two” reference had been about the dance club on the upper floor closing at that time. He mentioned on the way up in a private elevator off the kitchen that he had a small business office on the restaurant level, but a larger, more comfortable one shared the third floor with the Paddlewheel Lounge.
    Office wasn’t really the word for it—bachelor pad would be more like it, a room wider than it was long with the far wall engulfed by a projection TV screen and a viewing area consisting of a plump brownleather sofa bookended by overstuffed brown leather chairs. Between them was a glass coffee table under which the projection TV unit lurked, and a brown geometric-patterned area rug was beneath all those furnishings. The exposed floor was a gray marble-like tile, with the upper reaches of the brick walls at left and right given to shelving, books at left, video cassettes and CDs at right; stereo speakers rode the walls, as did track lighting.
    The wall to the left of the projection screen displayed a framed Warhol “Marilyn” pop-art print. An open door to the screen’s right provided a glimpse of a bedroom, though the lights were off and its shape remained vague. Much less vague was the shape of the slender little blonde, with an Orphan Annie head of yellow curls, who was