Green didn’t say “De-something,” obviously; I just hadn’t gotten the name—DeWitt maybe?
Whatever his handle, the Fudd-hatted fool nodded, his eyes lowered, ashamed. “Yes, sir.”
Then his disgusted boss, with a dismissive gesture toward his subordinate’s brown rental, headed inside the restaurant, and the doofus got in the Taurus and drove it over and parked in the graveled overflow lot, turning the engine off but not emerging.
Keeping watch.
I lowered the binoculars again. “Your daddy’s not alone—young guy. Blond. Body builder.”
“That would be DeWayne.”
“DeWayne.”
She shrugged, not giving a shit. “He was some kind of...I don’t know, super soldier.”
I looked at her. “Really.”
She shrugged again. “Cleans things up for Daddy, these days.”
“...Too young for Desert Storm.”
“Iraq.”
That made me smile, and she said, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” I said.
An hour went by, during which the girl said she had to pee, twice, and I ignored it the first time and the second time said, “Hold it. You can use the restaurant’s john.”
“When?” Her teeth were chattering again. “How much longer are you going to keep my daddy waiting like this?”
“Not much.”
I’d spotted Green in a window, seated in a booth within the restaurant, and right now he and DeWayne were having a cell phone conversation, a little heated on Green’s part. No lip-reading was possible, but I got the gist—where the fuck was I?
I put the binoculars in my left jacket pocket, and stuck my right hand in the other pocket for the nine millimeter which I then stuffed in my waistband, and said to her, “Time for Daddy and pissing,” and she said, “Aren’t I the lucky one,” and I hauled her up off the snowy ground by the elbow.
“What’s the plan?” she asked, as I led her through the woods.
But I didn’t answer her till we’d crossed the highway, a good half-mile down from the Log Cabin, when we were in the wooded area, heading back around behind the restaurant.
“The plan,” I said, “is you behave yourself and I don’t kill your pretty ass.”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
When we entered through the kitchen, the girl’s handcuffed hands were still under my draped-over loaner jacket, and I had to give her credit, she didn’t cause any trouble or indicate anything was wrong.
The short-order cook, an olive-skinned guy who might have been Greek or Turkish or some shit, didn’t understand English; but he got the drift of a ten-spot quick enough, and—when I gestured toward the dining area—let us pass without incident.
We stopped at the ladies’ room (“Setters”)—a single seater, but there was room enough in there for both of us.
“What are you—kinky?” she asked, as she undid her jeans.
“No,” I said. “Careful.”
She sat. “You could turn your back.”
“Girls with nipple rings don’t get to be shy and retiring.”
“Fuck you,” she said over the noise she was making.
“I already passed—remember?”
She smirked, wiped herself, stood, pulled up her drawers; her pussy was shaved, and I caught a glint of another ring down there—why was I not surprised?
But punkette or not, she took time to wash her hands, dainty little thing that she was. I gave her plenty of room, not caring to have her toss soapy water in my eyes.
As we emerged, a middle-aged woman in a kitty sweater was waiting and she gave us a look.
“You don’t want to know,” I advised her, and she seemed to agree, slipping inside the little ladies room. The gulf between shaved pussy and kitty sweaters is a wide one.
The folksy, hunting-themed restaurant had filled up some, farmers, truck drivers, assorted locals—half the booths taken, most of the stools at the counter, too.
Sticking out like a well-tailored sore thumb, Jonah Green—still in his Saville Row topcoat in his window booth—half-rose when he spotted us coming from behind the counter toward him. He glanced ever so slightly, frowningly, toward the window—out where DeWayne was sitting guard, not missing anything, remember?—and Julie and I slid in opposite him.
“Mr. Green,” I said, with a nod.
He formed a tiny sneer large with contempt; his eyes, like his car, were money color. “And what shall I call you? Besides forty-two fucking minutes late.”
“Quarry.”
“What kind of name is that?”
“A false one.” I glanced at Julie. “You seem overjoyed to see your daughter, alive and well.”
Prompted, he leaned forward and sent his eyes to her. “Are you all right, Julie?”
“Fuck you,” she said.
Her list of responses was limited, but got the job done.
Her father sighed and looked at me as if seeking support or sympathy or something the fuck he wasn’t going to get.
He asked, “Do you have any children, Mr. Quarry?”
“Besides your daughter? No.”
He shook his head. “I fly through the goddamn night in a goddamn private jet to deliver this goddamn money, and this...”
“Mr. Green,” I interrupted tightly. “Some discretion, please?”
“...is the thanks I get. The appreciation.” Another sigh, a world-weary shrug. “But that’s the modern world, isn’t it, Mr. Quarry? Values. They’re nonexistent these days, aren’t they?”
I shifted in the booth. “You really don’t want to stall me, Mr. Green. Your daughter will tell you how little compunction I have about making people who annoy me go away.”
He studied me for perhaps five seconds—it seemed longer; and he smiled a little, as he did, which would have been unnerving if I impressed easily.
“An intelligent man,” Green said softly. “Possibly educated.”
“Flattery is probably not the approach you want to take, Mr. Green.”
“...How did you happen to, uh...intercept my daughter from those people?”
I shook my head. “That information is not included in the purchase price—shall we get on with business?”
His eyes tightened and he nodded. “Yes. Why don’t we?...And let me assure you, sir, that’s how I view this transaction—strictly business.”
Julie said, “Jesus Christ—now I’m a transaction. Can I get some fucking apple pie or something?”
Her long-suffering parent closed his eyes.
“Charm school didn’t take?” I asked him.
The millionaire flagged down a waitress, and said, “Apple pie for my daughter, please. And coffee. She likes it black.”
The waitress, a redhead who’d been beautiful fifteen years ago, scribbled, then looked at me over her pad. “Anything for you, honey?”
“No. Thanks.”
She disappeared.
Julie was sitting forward and grinning nastily at her old man. “Wow—I’m blown the fuck away!” Then she looked at me. “Son of a bitch knows how I like my coffee!” And back at him: “How old am I, Jonah? What’s my boyfriend’s name?”
Her father gave her an expression as blank as brick. “You don’t have a boyfriend, not since I paid Martin Luther Van Dross to take a hike. He loved you a whole ten grand worth, angel. So, yes, I know you like it black.”
“You bastard,” she said, and her eyes were tearing. “You heartless fucking bastard....”
I said, “This is touching, and would make great reality TV; but if you two don’t mind—business?”
Julie glared out the window.
Green shifted his weight, his eyes unblinking but not exactly cold as they settled on me. “I just want you to know, Mr. Quarry, that there will be no efforts made against you. Not with the law, not privately—and a man with my resources could easily do that, either way. But you saved my daughter’s life...and I value that. I do value that.”
Julie’s
jaw tightened but her eyes didn’t leave the window.
“Swell,” I said. “I value money. Where is it?”
Green lifted an eyebrow, offered up a half-smile that was wholly conspiratorial. “If you’ll reach under the table...I trust you prefer that I not reach under there myself...you will find a briefcase.”
My left hand found it easily. I hauled the brownleather attache up beside me, near the aisle, away from the girl.
I said, “I’d be annoyed if this contained pepper spray or dye or some such shit.”
“I’m sure you would be,” Green said, reasonably. “But you’ll find it’s all there—just as you asked....” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Small bills. Unmarked.”
“Is this case locked?”
“No.”
“Well, your daughter’s handcuffs are,” I said, a foot in the aisle. “I’m going to the men’s room to count this. I’ll be back with the cuff key.”
Julie, eyes finally leaving the window, chimed in: “Good. That way I won’t have to stick my face in my pie....Mr. Quarry here loves it when I talk dirty, Daddy.”
Green ignored her, saying to me, “You really trust me, trust us, to be here when you get back?”
All sarcasm and attitude gone, serious as a heart attack, Julie leaned forward and gave her father the following advice: “Don’t fuck with this guy, Daddy....”
The magnate lost his cool momentarily: “Why—didn’t you?”
Her upper lip peeled back over teeth as white as they were feral: “No...but not for lack of trying.”
Green heaved his largest sigh yet, gathered his dignity and said to me, “You’ll have to forgive our little family bickering, Mr. Quarry, but—”
“If this isn’t money,” I told him, hefting the briefcase, already half out of the booth, “I’ll find you in hell.”
Green summoned another half-smile but his eyes were narrow. “Isn’t that a little melodramatic, coming from you, Mr. Quarry?”
“Yeah,” I admitted. “But from what I see, melodrama is what you people understand....If you’ll excuse me.”
I could feel the millionaire’s eyes on my back as I headed to the men’s room, passing the redheaded waitress bearing Julie’s pie and coffee as I did.
And before I took the turn toward the restrooms, I could hear the handcuffed girl blurt, “Ah shit,” behind me. Maybe she’d have to stick her face in that pie, after all.
The men’s room (“Pointers”) was another small single-stool affair, but I knew that. I was not a regular here by any means, having only stopped at the Log Cabin twice since coming to the area; but I remembered the window, and the briefcase and I went out it.
DeWayne was behind the wheel, keeping loyal if pointless watch when I slipped in on the passenger side, the briefcase handle in my left hand and the nine millimeter in my right.
The gun was low, in my lap, as I pointed it up at the oval, unformed face.
His eyes were light blue and wide as hell when he looked at me, and then down into the dark unfathomable eye of the automatic’s snout.
“Fuck a duck,” he said.
His voice was on the high side, about a second tenor; but at least he didn’t squeak.
I asked him, “Are you going to make me kill you, DeWayne?”
His eyelashes, which were long and oddly feminine, fluttered. “No. Hell no!”
He put his hands up, shoulder high.
“Put those down,” I told him.
He did.
He seemed a little hurt—here he’d been trying to cooperate and voluntarily raised his hands, and all he got for it was a sharp rebuke. It’s a tough world, DeWayne.
I gestured with the nine. “Now put your weapon and your cell phone, pager, keys, anything in your pockets, on the seat here between us.”
DeWayne carried that out—his gun was a glock—and he was about done when I asked, “What branch?”
He frowned, parsing that, then said, “Marines.”
That got a dry chuckle out of me. “Semper fi, Mac.”
This caused DeWayne to brighten with hope. “You, too...? Where’d you serve?”
“In a real war....Now get out and open the trunk.”
He swallowed, nodded, and within seconds he was crawling up inside the Taurus trunk, a big ungainly fetus making a tight fit. The overflow lot was empty, except for us, and the windows on this end of the restaurant were vacant. So we were cool.
His expression was pitiful when he said, “Thanks.”
“What for?”
“Not...not killing me.”
“It’s early yet,” I said.
And slammed the trunk shut.
Super soldier.
Jonah Green’s face was in his booth’s window when I pulled out casually in DeWayne’s rental vehicle. Julie Green’s face was in the window, too. She was laughing her ass off.
“Goddamnit!” her father yelled.
Didn’t take a seasoned lip-reader to make that out.
Five
And that should have been the end of it.
I’d left DeWayne in the trunk of his rental at the rest stop where my Jag waited. The kid’s glock and belongings I left in the front seat—no call to take them and, anyway, I’m not a fucking thief.
I’d cleaned up after myself, disposing of Harry’s brown Taurus in the gravel pit, and doing further clean-up at the cottage, and put the money in a safe deposit box at Brainerd.
Rationalization is a seductive bitch, and I’d pretty much convinced myself that if Harry and Louis turned into floaters on that lake after the thaw, their mob credentials would get the killings written off as Chicago fun and games.
Almost a month had passed when, on an afternoon so overcast that the northwoods were more blue and gray than green and brown, I was lounging in the hot tub in the barnwood-sided building that housed my personal off-season sauna and swimming pool. The world outside was cold as fuck, but my indoors universe was pleasantly muggy, the jet streams working on that chronic low back of mine like Spanish dancers minus the castanets.
I didn’t even have trunks on. Since I was the sole winter resident of Sylvan Lodge, except on the two days a week José came around, I would just jog across the private lane to the pool building without even my jacket, and go in and strip down and swim a few laps, sauna a while and wind up in the Jacuzzi. I liked the free feeling, but in retrospect, bare-ass was vulnerable.
And vulnerable is not a condition I like to put myself in.
I was nursing a can of Diet Coke, the tub’s jets feeling just fine, and the events of less than a month ago were nowhere in my mind. Even over the hot tub burble, I heard the sound of the glass doors opening—this was not one of José’s days—and my hand drifted toward my folded towel, under which was the nine millimeter.
Bare-ass is one thing; unarmed something else again....
Jonah Green appeared to be alone.
I could see another Lexus parked out front—this one sky-blue—and no driver was apparent. The millionaire was in a jogging suit the color of his name with running shoes and no jacket or topcoat, despite the cold; and his face was red with the weather because of it.
My first instinct was, he wanted me to know (or anyway think) he was not armed.
Very tentatively, he stood there with a glass door slid open, halfway in, and—with a deference I didn’t figure was usual coming from this man—asked, “May I come in?”
I just looked at him.
When he didn’t get permission, he came in just the same, closing the door behind him, and was goddamn lucky he wasn’t dead by the time he turned and said, “Don’t get your balls in an uproar, Mr. Quarry—I’m alone.”
Deference hadn’t worked, so he’d gone straight to hard-nosed.
He was moving cautiously my way, saying, “And if you kill me, you won’t know how I found you.”
I said nothing.
He nodded, as if I’d actually answered, then came over and pulled up a metal deck chair and sat at the edge of
the Jacuzzi, nearby but not getting in my space.
“Don’t worry,” he said, patting the steamy air. His expression was soft, the grooves in his face at ease; but the money-color eyes were hard. “I didn’t waste my resources finding you to get...even, or some idiotic bullshit.”
I said nothing.
Sitting forward slightly in the chair, Green said, “Before you kill me—strangle me with that towel or whatever, I would—”
I showed him the nine millimeter from under the towel.
“There’s an elegant expression,” he said with admirable cool. “ž‘Don’t shit where you eat’....You live here, you manage this place, you have a life... why risk that with a death?...Hear me out.”
I said nothing, but I lowered the gun a fraction.
He put his hands on his chest. “I really do appreciate what you did for me, and my daughter. I’m well aware that those mob fagellehs would’ve killed the little smartass.”
I said, “Our business is over.”
He shrugged, a tiny smile forming, pleased he’d finally drawn me out into at least speaking. “Our old business is over, Mr. Quarry—I really do admire your resourcefulness, your abilities. Take DeWayne, for example.”
“No thanks.”
He shrugged in an admission of his subordinate’s imperfection. “DeWayne isn’t brilliant, but he’s dangerous. You handled him as if he were a helpless child.”
“A couple thousand DeWaynes have died in Iraq.”
The millionaire sighed, nodded, slumping in his metal chair. He shook his head. “And a goddamned shame.”
I shrugged with one shoulder. “We spilled more than that.”
Picking up on my attitude, and instantly getting over his sorrow for the lost lives in Iraq, Jonah Green said, “I’m sure you did. Which is why I won’t make the mistake of sending a boy to do a man’s work again....I’ve asked around about you, Mr. Quarry. By the way, is that a first name or a last name?”
“Probably.”
That stopped him for a beat, then he moved on briskly, almost cheerfully. “At any rate, I did some asking around....I do business in all kinds of circles, you know.”
“You talk in circles, too. What do you want, Mr. Green?”
He semi-ignored that question. “Seems there’s a certain freelance assassin who dropped out of sight, a few years ago. He had a reputation as the best man in a tough game, sort of a killer’s killer. He wasn’t mob, although sometimes he did jobs for—”
The Last Quarry Page 4
