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 utterly blank 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, 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.”
