The Quiet Game. Greg Iles
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offends me. My Puritan morals, I suppose, I’m not one to deny a dying man what pleasure he can get, but something about this arrangement seems wrong. The woman doesn’t strike me as a hooker, but Presley is paying her in some way. Probably not much, either. When you’re poor, a little money looks like a lot. Or maybe he’s not paying her. Maybe she’s here because she wants to be here—or needs to be. That bothers me even more.
“I didn’t know nurses could administer chemotherapy at home.”
Presley laughs darkly. “This is my Mexican cocktail. They UPS it up here from Tijuana. My New Orleans cancer doc says it’ll kill me, but I’ve outlived that bastard’s prediction by a year already.”
Bootleg chemotherapy. Is that what’s keeping him alive? Or is it just brute redneck stubbornness?
“They cut out my damn prostate,” he mutters, “but I made ’em leave the nerves in. I can still go like a Brahma bull.”
The blonde sits on the floor at his feet, waiting for me to leave.
“Just remember something, Ray. You’ve got all you’re going to get from this particular well.”
“Nice doing business with you, son. Let me give you a piece of advice before you go.”
“What’s that?”
“Leave Del Payton in the ground. You start messing with business that old—especially nigger-business—it makes a lot of people nervous.”
“I figured that out already.”
“You’re a smart boy, ain’t you?”
The blonde checks Presley’s IV line for bubbles, then leans back against his legs.
I walk to the door, but something makes me turn. “Let me ask you something, Ray. How did Judge Marston get involved in Payton’s murder?”
Presley goes as still as a snake poised to strike, his eyes locked on mine. “Maybe you ain’t so smart after all.”
“There’s a lot of guys on death row who think different.”
I shut the door, leaving him to his bootleg chemo and his blonde. My stomach is fluttering like the wings of a hummingbird, but the Smith & Wesson is a hard bulge in my left front pocket. I have the gun. I have the gun. Seventy-five thousand dollars is a small price to pay to have a spike removed from your heart.
As soon as I hit the highway, I dial my father’s office and wait for him to come to the phone.
“Dr. Cage,” he says finally.
“It’s me.”
“What happened?”
“I have the package.”
A long exhalation. An expression of relief I can only guess at. He’s been waiting with the same anxiety his patients suffer through when awaiting a call from him about test results. “Jesus,” he breathes. “Son, you don’t know—”
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