The Last Quarry Read Online Free PDF

of dollars get out from behind the wheel.
    Jonah Green was not exactly a typical patron of the Log Cabin. At least sixty, he had a commanding presence, even from a distance, six foot one and perhaps two-hundred-twenty pounds with only a slight paunch and a close-cropped, almost military haircut that minimized both the gray and the receding hairline. His face was square, including his jaw, and grooved with lessons learned and given.
    From my perch I couldn’t see his eyes, but they were searching the landscape and, for one unnerving moment, his gaze seemed to linger on me, even though he couldn’t be seeing me, not without his own binoculars.
    I lowered mine. “Your father.”
    “No shit!”
    “He’s early—a good hour.”
    “So are you.”
    I raised them. “I’m a lying untrustworthy shit.”
    “...Good to know.”
    From a pocket of his topcoat—dark gray and probably Saville Row, unbuttoned and providing a glimpse of a well-tailored gray suit over Italian loafers—he withdrew something. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed to be a cell phone.
    He spoke into it, briefly.
    The object was returned to the topcoat pocket, and Green stood there inhaling deeply and exhaling smoky breath until, within a minute, a second car pulled in, a nondescript number, a brown Taurus.
    This gave me a momentary start, because the car was similar if not identical to the rental Harry Something had driven, an automobile I had yet to deal with (it would need disposal, probably in one of the gravel pits intended for Julie, before I came along).
    But this turned out to be a coincidence—and how I hate those—when its driver got out, a brawny dip-shit in a brand-new green-and-black hunting jacket and matching flop-ear Elmer Fudd cap. In his early twenties, this ripe specimen had broad shoulders and close-set eyes in an oval face that seemed utterlyblank from this distance. I had a hunch a closer look wouldn’t fill that oval in much.
    The two men began to speak, though Green did most of the talking, gesturing, giving orders. At the start of this one-sided exchange, Green’s flunky took off the Fudd cap respectfully, revealing blond hair, cut even shorter than his boss’s; he would nod when it seemed appropriate.
    I centered on their faces, and I had a good three-quarter angle on Jonah Green, with a decent side view of his boy. Much of what I have done over the years involves surveillance, and while I never studied the art, I’d picked up lip-reading early on.
    Green was saying, “Prick’ll probably show early. Stay sharp.”
    “How will I recognize him?”
    “Oh, I don’t know—maybe because he has my daughter with him?”
    The subordinate blushed. I’m not lying. He fucking blushed, and shook his head and said, “Right. Right! Sorry. That was dumb. Really dumb.”
    The millionaire just looked at him, for the longest time, then said, “Form the thought. Examine it. Decide if it’s worth sharing. Understand this concept, De-something?”
    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,