Max Collins - The last quarry

“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, 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?”