Quarry’s Climax

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I’d been doing murder for hire for five years now — well, seven and change, if you include the two tours in Vietnam. But in all that time, I’d never had a real, honest-to-God vacation. Unless you counted China Beach.

But this wasn’t twenty miles of white sand in Da Nang perfect for sunning, surfing and suckee-fuckee. The war was over and this was Las Vegas, and you could get plenty of sun and suck-and-fuck here, but surfing in the Flamingo pool was probably not possible, even if you were a high roller who got comped.

Which I wasn’t.

Not comped by the casino/hotel, that is. A pompous gent who called himself the Broker had paid for my room and anything I cared to charge to it, from meals to massage. So as vacations went, this was a winner. And it wasn’t always easy to be a winner in Vegas.

But then this wasn’t really a vacation, was it?

Next to the pool, on the sandstone apron, on a deck chair lapping up sun and letting his Ray-Ban-hidden eyes travel from one well-stuffed bikini to another was a slenderly muscular young man in his late twenties, nursing a tan with sunblock. He was good-looking in the kind of bland way that makes you forget his face almost immediately. His brown hair was short, but not military short; five ten, one-hundred-sixty pounds. He wore boxer trunks, dark blue, and he was me.

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