Butcher's Moon

Thirty-one

When Parker got back to Lozini’s place, the houseman told him, “There was a telephone message for you. Not from Mr. Lozini.”

No, not from Lozini. Parker said, “Who from?”

“Detective Calesian. He left a number for you to call him back.”

Parker looked at the piece of paper: a name, seven digits. “This number mean anything to you?”

“Yes, sir,” the houseman said. Sometime in the last hour he had either lost his fear or grown used to it; in any case, he was all right now, operating without that buzzing sense of tension. “That’s one of Mr. Buenadella’s home lines,” he said.

“All right,” Parker said. “Get me Dulare, Shevelly, Faran, Walters, and Simms. I want them to meet me here, all five of them, right now. I’ll use the hall phone here, you use a different one.”

The houseman looked doubtful. “Is this okay with Mr. Lozini? I don’t have any instructions about you.”

“You know those five names,” Parker told him. “Your boss wants them here.”

That made sense to the houseman. “Okay,” he said. “I just wanted to check, you know?”

Parker turned away to the hall phone, and after a second the houseman left. Parker dialed the number from the piece of paper, and on the first ring it was answered in Buenadella’s voice, sounding wary. “Yeah? Hello?”

”This is Parker.”

“Oh.” Buenadella sounded almost relieved, as though some other caller might have been even worse news. “Listen, Parker,” he said, “that wasn’t my idea. That was a mistake.”

Calesian’s mistake; Parker had already figured that out. And Calesian was in the room with Buenadella, which was why Buenadella had identified the caller by name.

“Parker?”

“I’m here.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“I didn’t know you were finished,” Parker said.

“I’m not—I’m not exactly finished.” Nervousness was coming into Buenadella’s voice, meaning some sort of lie or con or trap was about to be brought out. Buenadella’s problem was that he wasn’t mobster enough; he could run circles around somebody like Lozini when it came to politics and business, but a job like Lozini’s wasn’t the right slot for a politician or a businessman. Buenadella would have found that out sooner or later; he could consider himself lucky he found out before he tried on the crown.

“Parker?”

“If you have something to say, Buenadella, go ahead and say it.”

“About your partner—”

“That isn’t the subject.”

“All right. The money.”

Another goddam pause. What did Buenadella want, fill-in about the weather, how’s the wife and kids, what do you think of the Miami Dolphins? A fucking businessmen’s lunch, on the phone. “I’m in a hurry, Buenadella,” Parker said.

“I want to set up a meeting.” Which was said all in a rush; leaping into the lie, meaning the lie was in the form of an ambush.

“What for?”

“To—to explain things. To make another deal.”

“Where and when?”

“You say. And it won’t be with me, or Calesian, or any of my other people. You know Ted Shevelly, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

”He’s not my man, absolutely not. He’s Al Lozini’s man all the way.”

Parker believed that. It made sense to tether a goat out as bait. “All right.”

“He’ll carry the message,” Buenadella said. “You meet with him, talk it over, make your decision. Okay?”

“Where is Shevelly now?”

“Right here with me. You can talk to him yourself, set up the meeting any way you want it. I swear to God, Parker, that last time was a mistake. I was negotiating in good faith.”

Parker believed that one, too. What he didn’t believe was that Buenadella was still negotiating in good faith. “Put Shevelly on,” he said.

“Just a minute.”

Shevelly, when he came on, sounded scared and mistrustful, as though he, too, had the whole thing figured for an ambush, but didn’t know yet whether he was supposed to come out of it standing up or lying down. He said, “Parker?”

“What’s your car look like?”

“A maroon Buick Riviera. License number five-two-five, J-X-J.”

“Get up on the Belt Highway going clockwise,” Parker told him. “I’ll get in touch with you.”

“What car do I look for?”

“You’ll recognize it,” Parker told him, and hung up, and went looking for the houseman, who was still on the phone. “Forget Shevelly,” he said, “I’m going to go meet him now.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You get the others?”

“Mr. Faran and Mr. Dulare, yes, sir. I’m trying to reach Mr. Simms and Mr. Walters now.”

“When they get here,” Parker said, “tell them to wait, until either Lozini or I get back.”

“Yes, sir.”

Parker went outside and around to the rear of the house, where a four-car garage stood next to the tennis court. Only two spaces inside it were occupied, one by a tan Mercedes-Benz sedan and the other by a red Corvette. The keys were in both cars, and Parker chose the Mercedes because it was likelier to be associated with Lozini in Shevelly’s mind. He drove it out to the Belt Highway, went up the ramp, and stayed at forty in the right lane until he saw the maroon Buick Riviera go by. He hung well back, watching the other traffic, and could see no sign that Shevelly was being followed, so finally he accelerated until he was less than a car length behind the tight-clenched rear end of the Riviera, and then tapped the horn until he saw Shevelly’s head move as the man checked his rear-view mirror.

All right; Shevelly would recognize the car and would now know that he had been met. Since they were both in the left lane, Parker eased over into the middle and accelerated past Shevelly, glancing at him on the way by, seeing the strain in the man’s face and posture.

The Mercedes was a strong and graceful animal, more bull than horse. It was powerful and responsive, but there was no softness or leniency anywhere in the controls. It would be a good car if you wanted to leave a place fast.

Sunday afternoon traffic on the highway was moderate, mostly slower drivers with no sense of urgency, and leaving enough gaps so that it was possible to get through them at any speed you might want. Parker pushed it for a while, to see how good Shevelly was, but when the Buick began to lag far back, he slowed again and took an off-ramp at random, turning right on the local street, toward the center of town.

This was a lower-middle-income section, small houses set three or four feet apart, mostly with enclosed front porches, many with false-brick sheeting over the original clapboard. Parker made half a dozen turns in a maze of narrow side streets before being convinced that Shevelly wasn’t being followed, and then went looking for the right place to stop.

He found it right away, a business block lined with small stores, all of them closed on Sunday: a dry cleaner’s, a meat market, a record store, shops like that. Traffic here was almost nonexistent, and only three cars were parked at the curbs along the whole block.

Parker stopped in front of a children’s clothing store, and Shevelly pulled in behind him. Parker waited where he was, and after half a minute Shevelly got out of the Riviera, came hesitantly forward, and slid into the front seat of the Mercedes next to Parker. “You’ve got Al’s car,” he said.

“So you’d recognize it.”

”Al was a friend of mine,” Shevelly said. He seemed very intense about it.

So they’d told him Lozini was dead. It was a surprise he’d carry messages for them after that, but maybe he figured the only thing to do was line up with the winners. Parker himself had nothing to say about Lozini, so he said, “You have some sort of message for me.”

“Right.” Shevelly reached into his jacket pocket, and Parker showed him a pistol. Shevelly froze, then said, “It’s all right. I’m taking a package out.”

“Slow.”

“Very slow.”

Being very slow, Shevelly withdrew his hand from his pocket, bringing with it a small white box. “This is it,” he said, and extended it toward Parker.

Parker still had the pistol in his hand. “You open it,” he said.

Shevelly considered, then nodded. He took the top off the box, and showed Parker what was inside it.

Parker looked at the finger. The first knuckle was bent slightly, so that the finger seemed to be calm, at ease, resting. But at the other end were small clots of dark blood, and lighter smears of blood on the cotton gauze.

Shevelly said, “Your friend is alive. This is the proof.”

Parker looked at him and waited.

Shevelly seemed uncomfortable now, but to be pushing himself through the scene out of some inner conviction or determination. Almost as though he had a personal grudge against Parker. “The deal is,” he said, “that you come to Buenadella’s. That’s where Green is. They’ve got him in bed there, and they called a doctor. You come there by noon tomorrow, you can have your money, and you can take Green away with you. Buenadella will supply the ambulance to take him wherever you want out of town. Even two or three hundred miles from here.”

Parker glanced at the finger. “That’s no proof of anything,” he said.

“If you don’t get to Buenadella’s by noon tomorrow,” Shevelly said, “they’ll send you another finger. And another finger every day after that, and then toes. To prove he’s still alive, and not a decomposing body.”

“And if I go there by tomorrow I get him and the money both, and an ambulance to take him away in.”

“That’s right.”

Parker said, “Do you believe that, Shevelly?”

“He’s alive,” Shevelly said. “I saw him, he doesn’t look good, but he’s alive.”

“The deal is Buenadella’s way of doing things,” Parker said, “but Buenadella isn’t in charge any more.” He gestured with the pistol at the finger in the white box. “Calesian’s running things now.”

“It was a stupid thing to kill Al Lozini,” Shevelly said.

Parker frowned at him, looking at the coldly angry face. “Oh. They told you I did that, huh?”

Shevelly had nothing to say. Parker, studying him, saw there was no point arguing with him, and no longer possible to either trust him or make use of him. He gestured with the pistol toward Shevelly, saying, “Get out of the car.”

“What?”

“Just get out. Leave the door open, back away to the sidewalk, keep facing me.”

Shevelly frowned. “What for?”

“I take precautions. Do it.”

Puzzled, Shevelly opened the door and climbed out onto the thin grass next to the curb. He took a step to the sidewalk and turned around to face the car again.

Parker leaned far to the right, aiming the pistol out at arm’s length in front of him, the line of the barrel sighted on Shevelly’s head. Shevelly read his intention and suddenly thrust his hands out protectively in front of himself, shouting, “I’m only the messenger!”

“Now you’re the message,” Parker told him, and shot him.