The last quarry q-6 Read online

  This was a woman.

  A woman who walked to the deep end and dove in.

  Which to witness, I don’t mind telling you, was in its way thrilling.

  So I watched her swim. I watched her swim for a long time, taking her relaxation at the end of her working day by stroking the water, smoothly graceful, and then on her back, a dreamily sensuous if unintentional performance, and why wouldn’t it be?

  She was nude, and she was beautiful.

  And so I did my job, keeping her under surveillance, and my dick throbbed in my pants. Which is where I left it. I wasn’t going to unzip and jerk off or anything.

  Jesus.

  What kind of guy do you think I am?

  Seven

  Pushing the southern outskirts of Homewood, Sneaky Pete’s was one of those slightly upscale country-western bars where shitkickers were not welcome but young professionals were. In the low-slung brick building’s barely lighted parking lot-asphalt not gravel-you’d be more likely to see a Navigator than a Ford F150. Once inside, the music was that painfully homogenized country pop of the Faith Hill and Brooks and Dunn variety; the only saving grace was line dancing having gone out of fashion.

  This was just your typical middle-class/upper-middle-class meat market, and a guy in his fifties had to work to look inconspicuous among all these twenty- and thirty-somethings.

  It helped that the place was packed-this was Friday night, and lively with laughter, clinking glasses, and the promise of hooking up. Even though I was not a smoker, the notion that a bar like this was A SMOKE-FREE ENVIRONMENT seemed wrong, even wacky. Would entire generations of Americans grow up going out Friday and Saturday nights, not coming home with their bodies and clothing reeking of smoke? Another communal experience lost…

  I was not able to sit as near Janet and her friend Connie as I would have liked. They were in a booth to my back, with a cluster of tables between us. But I was facing a bar with a mirrored wall, and my lip-reading skills came in handy.

  The conversation I am about to report I admit took some filling in with my imagination, when my vision was blocked by patrons or wait staff, including the bartender (or ’tendress-a good-looking brunette in her mid-twenties in the red-plaid shirt and jeans that all the help wore, though she had her top tied into a Daisy Duke’s halter).

  And I could actually hear some of Janet and Connie’s discourse. The nature of the loud music and yelled conversation made it possible to hone in on them, and pick some of it up.

  Janet, in her emerald silk blouse and new jeans, was probably the most conservatively dressed woman in the joint-her blowsy gal pal Connie, for instance, was in a low-cut red sweater, an angora number that would’ve put a big grin on Ed Wood’s face, and jeans camel-toe tight.

  They were drinking margaritas-on their second round.

  And Connie was saying, more or less, “Honey! You should go after it- really.”

  And Janet shook her head and said, “But you’re more qualified, Con. Plus, I can think of three people with more tenure than me!”

  “ You’re the qualified one, Jan- you have the degree.”

  A guy stopped alongside Connie, facing Janet; he was angled enough that it made him a tough read, but I got it: “ My wife won’t have to work.”

  Rick.

  Hadn’t recognized him at first-there were dozens of Ricks in Sneaky Pete’s. But this was a specific Rick, Rick the prick, the abusive boyfriend who had dropped by the library this afternoon, in his ongoing campaign to make this young woman’s life miserable.

  Slender, taller than I remembered, he wore a brown leather jacket and black jeans, a glimpse of darker brown shirt beneath. A good-looking guy, as vapid sons of bitches go.

  Connie said something I didn’t catch, but Rick said, “Fuck you very much” to her, and shoved in beside Janet.

  He was turning toward her, so I only got part of his face, but figuring out what he was saying wasn’t tough-he wasn’t exactly Noel Coward.

  “Very funny,” he said to her.

  She didn’t look at him, concentrating on her margarita, or pretending to. “What is?”

  “Keeping me waiting.”

  “Is that what I did?”

  “I waited my ass off at the Brew for you, for half a fuckin’ hour.”

  Now she looked at him. Her expression was commendably withering. “We weren’t meeting. We didn’t have anything set up.”

  He shook his head, peeved. “So you make me go lookin’ for you? Lotta bars in this town. That any way to act?”

  Connie, staring daggers at their uninvited guest, said, “Do you mind? We were talking.”

  He leaned toward the big-hair blonde. “Probably you were talking…You mind giving us some privacy?”

  “Let me see, let me give that a little thought-how about, I don’t frickin’ think so.”

  Rick’s expression turned menacing. “ I think so.”

  Connie looked at Janet.

  Janet, reluctantly, nodded to her friend.

  Disgusted with both of them, Connie got up and left. She hadn’t gone two steps when a guy asked her to dance, and they went out onto the floor and bumped loins to Kenny Chesney.

  Rick came around to the other side of the booth, to sit across and make eye contact with Janet, who wasn’t cooperating.

  Leaning halfway over, he said, “I wasn’t kidding, you know. About marriage.”

  Janet’s eyes widened and she began to shake her head. “The last thing I want to do is marry you, Rick.”

  “That’s not what you said, before.”

  “That was weeks, maybe months ago. That was when…when you were still being…nice.”

  “I’m always nice to you!”

  She just looked at him.

  He shrugged. “Well…I’ll be nice in the future. How’s that sound?”

  “Insincere.” Now she leaned forward, and worked hard at softening her expression. “Rick-we’re over. You must know that. Can’t you see? Let’s just walk away friends.”

  Suddenly he was out of the booth and reaching for her, dragging her out of her seat. He said something I didn’t quite catch, but along the lines of: “We’re gonna talk this out, now.”

  Then he took her roughly by the arm and hauled her through the bar, toward the door. She was protesting, and I didn’t have to read her lips to catch what she said-hell, everybody in the place caught what she said: “ Rick! Please! No…no… ”

  Half the eyes in Sneaky Pete’s were on the unhappy couple; the other half were making a point of not looking, ignoring what I gathered was a familiar scene around town.

  The good-looking brunette bartender was bringing me my third beer. She looked toward the door, and said, “Pity. Hope he doesn’t hurt that poor kid, again.”

  I said, “Isn’t anybody going to do anything about it?”

  She raised an eyebrow. “You see anybody doing anything about it?”

  I threw a five-spot on the counter and said, “Drink that last one yourself.”

  “Anything you say, Daddy…”

  When I was exiting onto the parking lot, half a dozen tobacco addicts were coming back in hurriedly, pitching their smokes sparking into the night. They apparently had no desire to be witnesses to what Rick might do to Janet.

  Those two were the only ones in the lot, besides myself, and Rick had her cornered against a big blue Navigator, his hand against the metal, her face turned away from his, eyes shut tight.

  “Two people,” he shouted at her, “who love each other oughta be able to talk to each other! God! Fuck!”

  He used his keys to click open the vehicle’s door and shoved Janet in the front seat, rider’s side. He was about to shut her in when I put a hand on his shoulder.

  Rick whirled, and took a few seconds to size me up-I’m not small, but to him I must have looked no threat, just some ancient asshole sticking his nose in.

  He brushed my hand off his shoulder. “Go away. Not your business, dude.”

  I punched him
in the throat.

  Rick went down on his knees, clutching his neck, trying to breathe, not having much success, gurgling, his face scarlet, his eyes popping.

  From the nearby rider’s seat of the SUV, door still open, Janet Wright was taking this in with huge eyes…though not as huge as Rick’s.

  “Excuse me,” I told her, and I took Rick by the collar of his leather jacket and dragged him like the sack of garbage he was across the asphalt. Hauled him through some brush and into the surrounding trees. Deposited him in a small clearing.

  Finally able to breathe again, Rick had not, however, found his way up off the ground.

  Hurt in more ways than one, he managed to squeak, “You…you coulda killed me!”

  “No,” I said. “Next time I’ll kill you.”

  “What the fuck…fuck business is it…of-”

  I bitch-slapped the prick.

  The sound surprised me-it was as loud in the night as a gunshot, and the woman in the SUV probably heard it, too. I hoped to hell she wasn’t like some abused women, her next move running off and getting her poor abuser some help.

  Rick was down on his knees, as if praying. If he really was praying, he was keeping it inside his head, because the “dude” wasn’t saying anything-just whimpering.

  I knelt before him and I locked my eyes onto his face, though his eyes tried to escape.

  “Do you believe I’ll kill you?” I asked him.

  “Yeah…yeah…sure.”

  But I wasn’t convinced he was convinced.

  I took the nine millimeter from my jacket pocket.

  He drew in a breath, eyes and nostrils flared.

  “Open wide,” I said.

  “Fuck you!” he said.

  The epithet gave me the opening I needed, and I inserted the nine’s snout.

  I asked him again: “Do you believe I’ll kill you?”

  Rick, all but deep-throating the barrel, nodded, his eyes white all around, something like “yes, yes” emerging from his throat.

  “That’s too bad,” I said. “Because I really didn’t want you to.”

  And I ripped the gun out of Rick’s mouth.

  Rick’s hand clutched his face and blood streamed through his fingers in little red ribbons. As I’d intended, the weapon’s gunsight had carved a notch in the roof of his mouth and maybe chipped a tooth.

  He was crying now.

  “Anything you’d care to say to me?” I asked.

  He lowered his hand; his mouth was a bloody mess, his teeth smeared red; one was, in fact, broken.

  Good.

  When he spoke, it was through bubbling blood.

  “I won’t go near her,” he said. “Won’t ever go near her again.”

  I shrugged. “Don’t decide all at once. Sleep on it.”

  I whacked him with the nine millimeter and he went to sleep even before he collapsed in a pile in the brush.

  The nine’s snout had a little blood on it, which I wiped off on the kid’s newer-than-new jeans, giving them a little character, wondering if Rick would know, when he woke up, how very lucky he’d been.

  I put the gun back in my jacket pocket.

  When I came out of the brush and trees, the woman I was here to kill was coming toward me. She was moving steadily, though her expression betrayed an uncertainty about whether she should be afraid or not.

  I came to a stop.

  She did, too, and asked me, “Is…is he all right?”

  “No,” I said. “He’s a sick fuck.”

  “Well…” She smiled just a little. “I know that, of course. But you didn’t…”

  “He’ll be fine tomorrow. And I don’t think he’ll bother you again.”

  “His family…They’re important.”

  I nodded. “Sent him to the best schools, I bet. But he got his most important lesson tonight…I don’t care if his father is named Bush-he won’t bother you again.”

  The brown eyes were wide with worry. “Why did you do that? You…you shouldn’t have.”

  I sighed. “I know.”

  With no urgency, I took her by the arm and walked her toward the bar.

  Her sideways look indicated worry had given way to curiosity. “What’s your name?”

  “Jack,” I said. “Jack Ryan.”

  “Like in the Tom Clancy novels?”

  “Yeah, only a little more heroic.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “So I see…”

  We were in front of Sneaky Pete’s now.

  “I’m taking off,” I said. “You need a ride anywhere?”

  “No…thanks. My friend’ll take me home.”

  I frowned and gestured behind me, toward the trees. “Not that friend…”

  “No! No. My friend Connie.”

  She was studying me now, and I felt ill at ease, suddenly. Her face told me what she was thinking-how St. George had just saved her from the dragon, but how strange and even frightening her savior was.

  Then her eyes tightened and she spoke. “Were you at the library today?”

  “Yes,” I said. I gave her a little lame one-finger goodbye salute. “…Good night.”

  I moved hurriedly to my rental vehicle.

  And I could feel her eyes on me, getting in the car and behind the wheel, and even with the window up, I could hear Rick’s voice: “ Unnggh…oh…Jesus! ”

  He had stumbled from the edge of the wooded area, his mouth bloody, looking like he’d fallen down a couple flights of stairs. He sat on the asphalt, on his knees, prayer-like again, shoulders hunkered over, crying.

  I could see Janet thinking about it. She even started toward him, then thought better of it, and yelled, “You deserve it, you dick!”

  And she went into the bar.

  Starting up the car, I smiled, thinking, Good for you.

  Then I caught my reflection in my rearview mirror and frowned.

  I shoved my hand into the steering wheel, furious with myself, muttering, “Fuck you think you’re doing…”

  Soon I was pulling into the Homewood Motor Court, which had last been remodeled about five years after Bonnie and Clyde stayed there. Inside, sitting on the edge of my bed with the nine millimeter in one hand and a photo in the other.

  I was staring at one of the surveillance shots of Janet Wright, a fairly close-up shot in which she looked not bad at all. I thought about a lot of things, including about how Jonah Green’s fucking P.I. reports didn’t even mention this Rick character, but I couldn’t work up a healthy sense of indignation, since I was the dipshit who had exposed himself to the target. Saved her from harm and worked up a conversation with her.

  Nothing good could come from it-and if this thing went to hell, I’d deserve it. That’s what you get for being nice.

  I put the photo on the nightstand, image side down. The nine millimeter I shoved under the pillow next to me on the double bed-easier to get to than under your own pillow, plus more comfortable.

  Naked, I got between the sheets, shut off the light, but I’d be a fucking liar if I said I went to sleep right away. For a long goddamn time I thought about this young woman, and about what a sweetheart she seemed to be, but that she was dead already, just didn’t know it yet, and I shouldn’t go all soft in the center or anything, just because she had nice knockers and frilly pink panties.

  A long goddamn time.

  Five minutes, anyway.

  Eight

  Janet Wright’s apartment-judging by the living room, which was all I could see from my vantage point-indicated an interesting woman lived there: funky ’30s deco antiques, a big bookcase of hardcovers, a few striking modern art prints on light green plaster walls. This was a second-floor apartment over a beauty shop, in downtown Homewood, in the last business block before residential kicked in.

  She slept in till nine-thirty, and by ten was sitting in a blue terrycloth robe on a big comfy-looking chair with her feet in bunny slippers up on a matching footrest (matching the chair, not the bunny slippers), drinking a cup of what I presumed
to be coffee, taking her time, watching television absently.

  Finally she got up and went into the next room and quickly came back in a state-college sweatshirt and jeans and went out to run a few errands and have breakfast.

  I shadowed her.

  Nothing happened.

  She returned.

  So did I.

  The rest of the morning into the early afternoon, hair pinned up, she vacuumed and dusted the living room. At times she disappeared, presumably to have lunch and do laundry somewhere, probably her kitchen area-the apartment seemed to be laid out box-car style, how many rooms I couldn’t be sure. The double windows gave me a generous view, but only of the living room.

  Judging by my similar apartment, directly across the way, hers would have three big rooms, one after the other, back to the alley. Like hers, my apartment indicated someone interesting lived there-the complicated kind of guy whose decor runs to a metal folding chair with a cushioned seat, a crate near the double window serving as a table (my nine millimeter resting there, and sometimes my binoculars) and a cooler on the bare floor, where already several Coke cans, a wadded-up napkin and a sandwich wrapper lurked.

  Unlike Janet’s building, this one hadn’t been renovated yet, or anyway the upper floors hadn’t-the lower floor had been half-heartedly redone but a computer store filling the space was out of business. Homewood had one of those funky downtowns getting gradually rehabilitated, and this empty apartment was, as I said, “similar” to hers…in its positioning and layout.

  But there were differences. Her apartment, for example, was not a hellhole unfit for the foodstamp crowd who’d not long ago been consigned here.

  My surveillance roost stank of old food and new ratshit, but it was free, and it was safe-some company of Jonah Green’s owned the building and had it earmarked for eventual Yuppification. I’d been provided a key to the back door and an assurance that no nightwatchmen would be checking.

  The building across the way mirrored this one, had probably been designed by the same architect and built by the same outfit somewhere after the turn of the century-19th century, that is. Fuck, I was old, having to keep track of goddamn centuries…