Plunder Squad

Four

The knocking at the motel-room door was soft but persistent. Parker had been asleep, but he came awake all at once, his eyes opening and staring upward in darkness that was almost total.

The faint rapping sounded again. Parker turned his head slowly, and oriented himself by the slit of light outlining the window draperies. He was in a motel room down near Fremont, the other side of Oakland from Beaghler’s suburb, and Ducasse was in the next room to the left. But there was no connecting door, and in any case, the sound came from someone outside, someone at the room entrance, which was down past the foot of the bed and to the right.

Parker waited a few seconds, until he felt sure there was no one in the room with him, and then he slipped quickly out of the bed. He put on clothing and went over to the broad window beside the door. Peering around the edge of the draperies, he saw the dim form of a woman out there, and as he watched she looked to right and to left and then knocked again, a little more loudly and demandingly than before.

Sharon.

Parker grimaced in irritation. The playlet in the woman’s head was so clear and obvious he could practically see it as though on a movie screen: “I had to come thank you for covering for me today.” “That’s all right.” “No, you were really wonderful. You just don’t know how Bob—” etc. “Come on in.” “Oh, thank you. What a lovely room! Is that bed as comfortable as it looks?”

If a thing is no good, it’s no good. There was no point sticking around until everything went absolutely to hell. Parker moved away from the window toward the door, found the light switch on the wall, and clicked it on. The tapping at the door immediately stopped.

Packing wouldn’t take long. The attache case was standing in the closet. Parker got his toilet kit from the bathroom and change of clothing out of the dresser drawer. Then he sat down on the bed again, picked up the phone, and asked the motel operator to connect him with the airport. It was while he was waiting for someone to answer that the knocking started at the door again. He also thought he heard her call something, in a voice that tried to be loud and soft at the same time.

His watch said it was two-twenty-five. After a dozen rings the phone was answered by a female voice giving the name of an airline and thanking him for calling. He said, “What’s the next flight non-stop to Newark?”

“Does it matter which airline, sir?”

“No.”

“Does it have to be Newark? There’s a flight leaving for Kennedy—”

“It has to be Newark.” That was where he’d left his car, when he’d driven down from Claire’s house.

“Yes, sir. One moment, please.”

While he waited, there was a sudden commotion outside. First a shriek of brakes, then a woman squealing, then different kinds of shouting and contention, and finally a loud angry hammering at the door.

The female voice came back to say that the next non-stop to Newark wasn’t until seven-ten. Nearly five hours away. “Thank you,” he said, and hung up, his expression disgusted.

Outside, Beaghler’s voice suddenly shouted out his name: Parker, not Latham. Parker looked over at the door. He got to his feet, walked over there, opened the door, and Beaghler came bursting in, his mouth full of words. Sharon was quivering in the background, rump against the hood of Parker’s rental car, eyes glittering in the light-spill from the open door.

Beaghler was still yelling. Parker shut the door, closed his hand into a fist, turned around, and hit Beaghler in the face. Beaghler went windmilling, his eyes wide open, and tripped over a corner of the bed to land on his butt on the floor. “Now shut up,” Parker said, and went over to the bed.

Sitting there on the floor, Beaghler looked too surprised to think. The fist had caught him on the left cheekbone, and his left eye was already beginning to blink and water.

Parker went to one knee beside the bed, and reached underneath. First he pulled out the revolver he had under there, a .32-caliber Smith & Wesson, a stubby defense gun similar to Kirwan’s, the one that hadn’t shot George Uhl. Parker switched this gun to his left hand and reached under the bed again, when Beaghler suddenly yelled, “Jesus Christ!” and threw himself face down on the floor, covering his head with his hands.

Parker ignored him. Working by feel, he released the spring-clip holster from under the bed, and then got to his feet again. He put the revolver in the holster, and both in the attache case still open on the bed.

By this time it had occurred to Beaghler he wasn’t being killed. He moved his hands away from his head, lifted his face, and blinked open-mouthed up at Parker. He watched Parker shut the attache case and snap the two catches. Then he said, “What are you doing?” All anger was out of him now, he was just baffled and curious.

Parker picked up the attache case, and paused to look down at Beaghler, who was shifting position again. He waited till Beaghler was sitting up on the floor the same as earlier, and then said, “I’m going home. I’m not interested in you or your heist. And if you ever shout my name out in a public place again, I’ll take your jaw off.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute.” Beaghler was scrambling to his feet. “What are you going away for?”Parker turned toward the door.

Beaghler called, “Will you wait? Listen, I made a mistake, that’s all. I thought there was something—”

Parker looked back at him. “You didn’t think anything,” he said. “You don’t think at all. You’re married to a whore, Beaghler, get used to it. Either put her on the street to bring home some money, or get rid of her. But stop trying to turn her into the little woman, it won’t work.”

“But—” Beaghler stalled, as though somebody had turned his engine off. He just stood there, his expression strained, one hand out in an explanatory gesture.

Parker turned away and went to the door. When he opened it, Sharon was still in the same artful pose of terror against the hood of his car. He stepped out, leaving the door open, and said to her, “Move it over there.”

“You aren’t going away?” The little-girl voice was so artificial that she gave the impression of being run by a ventriloquist.

The next unit’s door opened and Ducasse came out, fully dressed. He said, keeping his voice down, “What the hell’s going on?”

“Marital problems,” Parker said. He took Sharon by the elbow and moved her away from his car.

“God damn it,” Ducasse said. “I really need the money.”

Parker said, “So do I. You want a lift to the airport?”

Ducasse had come close enough so he could look through the open doorway at Bob Beaghler, who was now standing in there with his hands on his hips, looking both embarrassed and defiant. Ducasse glanced at Sharon, who was biting her under lip and trying to decide whether or not to get angry. Then he sighed and looked at Parker and shook his head. “I guess I’ll hang in here a little longer,” he said. “I’m living on my case money as it is. Maybe they’ll calm down now, after this.”

“Maybe,” Parker said. “See you around.”

“So long,” Ducasse said. He looked wistful as he watched Parker get into his car.

The last Parker saw of them in the rear-view mirror, Sharon was running for her red Olds convertible and Ducasse was on his way through the lighted doorway to talk to Bob Beaghler.