Butcher's Moon

Fourteen

From a street-corner phone booth, Parker put in a call to Claire. Usually she would be at their house on a lake in northern New Jersey, but for privacy they rented the place out to summer people in July and August, spending that time in a Florida resort hotel instead; she was waiting for him now at the hotel.

She was in the room. When she answered, he said, “It’s me,” knowing she would recognize his voice.

She did. “Hello,” she said, the one word filled with all her warmth. Neither of them expressed their feelings much in words.

“I’ll be here a few more days,” he said.

“All right,” she said; meaning not that it was all right, but that she understood he had no choice.

“It might be a week,” he told her. “I don’t know yet.”

“Any chance of my coming there?”

“It could get pretty loud,” he said.

There was a small hesitation, and then, in a fainter voice, she said, “All right.”

He knew what that was. Three times since they’d known one another his violent world had gone pushing in at her—during the coin convention robbery when they’d first met, and later when some people had kidnapped her to force Parker to help them in a diamond robbery, and finally when two men had broken into the house at the lake looking for him—and she wanted no more of it. Which was fine with him. “Good,” he said.

He was about to hang up, but she said, “Wait. Handy McKay called.”

Handy McKay was a retired thief, running a diner in Presque Isle, Maine. He was a sort of messenger service between Parker and some other people in Parker’s business, and his calling meant somebody wanted to invite Parker in on a score somewhere. He said, “Tell him I was busy?”

“It wasn’t like that,” she said. “He was calling for himself. He said he wants to talk to you.”

“All right.”

“He didn’t sound good,” she said. “In what way?”

“I don’t know. He sounded—unhappy, I think. Or worried about something. I’m not sure.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Parker said.

“Fine.”

“I’ll get back when I can.”

“I know you will,” she said.

He broke the connection, and called Handy McKay. Waiting for the call to go through, he remembered old Joe Sheer, another retired safecracker, who used to handle the messages for Parker until he’d got himself killed in some local stupidity, costing Parker an entire legitimate front in the process. Was the same thing going to happen again?

Handy’s gravelly voice came on at last, saying, “McKay’s Diner.”

Without preamble Parker said, “Claire said you wanted to talk to me.”

“Hello, there,” Handy said. “The fact of the matter is, I need to come out of retirement.”

That was a surprise. It had been nine years since Handy had done anything in the way of business; he and Parker had gotten involved in stealing a statuette for a rich man, and in the course of it Handy had been badly shot in the stomach. That’s what had led to his retirement in the first place. Hesitating, Parker said, “I thought you were through for good.”

“So did I. Little money trouble. The new interstate took all my truck business away, and this just ain’t a family joint.”

“Uh huh.”

“So if you’ve got anything going,” Handy said, “or hear about anything—”

”All right,” Parker said. He could understand the situation now. “Nothing right now,” he said, “but I’ll keep you in mind.”

“Thanks,” Handy said. “Not as a favor, you know, but because I’m still good.”

“I don’t do favors,” Parker reminded him. “I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“Good. So long.”

Parker hung up and went out to where Grofield was waiting in the Impala. He slid in behind the wheel, and Grofield said, “We got the evening off, boss?”

“We just hang loose,” Parker said, “till we call Lozini tomorrow at seven.”

“Then I do believe,” Grofield said, “I’ll make a little call of my own.” Opening the door, he hesitated halfway out of the car and, grinning, said, “Should I ask her if she has a friend?”

“No,” Parker said.