The Last Quarry Read Online Free PDF Page B

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. “Howmuch 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 whomight 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