The Outfit

It was eight-thirty, Thursday night; Handy was due in half an hour.

He heard footsteps coming along the cement walk and leaned back, waiting for whoever it was to pass his window. But the footsteps stopped and there was a rapping at his door. Madge’s voice called, “Parker? It’s me.” Parker shook his head and got to his feet. He’d have to talk to her.

Madge ran the Green Glen Motel. She was in her sixties now, one of the rare hookers who’d retired with money in the bank. Running this motel brought her a modest living, gave her something to do, and, indirectly, kept her connected with her original profession, for most of the units were rented by the hour. Because she could be trusted, her motel was also used sometimes as a meeting place by people in Parker’s line of work. The only thing wrong with her was that she talked too much.

Parker opened the door and she came in carrying a bottle and two glasses. “Turn the light on, Parker. What the hell are you, a mole?”

Parker shut the door and switched on the ceiling light. “Sit down,” he said, knowing she would anyway.

Madge was bone-thin, with sharp elbows and shrivelled throat. Her hair was coarse white, cut very short in the Italian style. It was cold outside and she hadn’t bothered to put on a coat for the walk from the office. She was wearing brand-new black wool slacks with the shadow-sharp creases and a white blouse with large black buttons down the front. Triangular turquoise Indian earrings dangled from her ears, and black thonged sandles revealed her pale feet and scarlet toenails. Her eyebrows had been completely plucked, and redrawn in satanic, black lines. Her fingernails were long, curved, and blood red. But she wore no lipstick; her mouth was a pale scar in a thin deeply lined face.

She put the glasses down on the bureau and held up the bottle for Parker to see. Haig & Haig. “Just off the boat,” she said, and laughed. She had gleaming white false teeth. Inside the young clothes was an old body, but inside the old body was a young woman. Madge wouldn’t let herself be old. It was 1920 and she was as young as the century the Great War was over, Prohibition was in, money was everywhere. It was a grand thing at the beginning of the Jazz Age to be alive and young and a high-priced whore. It would be 1920 around Madge till the day she dropped dead.

“You want ice?” she asked him. “I can go get some ice if you want.”

“Never mind,” said Parker. He wanted to get it over with, get the talking begun and done. Handy was due soon.

She splashed liquor into both glasses, handed him one, and said, “Happy times!”

He grunted. The liquor, when he tasted it, was warm and sour-sharp. He should have had her go for the ice.

She went over and sat on the bed. “What a sourpuss. I just can’t get used to that new face, Parker. You know, I think it’s even worse than the old one.”

“Thanks.” He went over and looked out the window again. When Handy got here, he’d have an excuse to throw Madge out.

“Did I tell you Marty Kabell was here last summer? He had some blonde with him, Christy or something. He had a moustache, too

.”

She talked away at his back as he stood looking out the window. She told him whom she’d seen in the last year, whom she’d heard about, where this one was now, what happened to that one. She was full of information. Some of the names she mentioned Parker didn’t recognize; Madge thought all the people she knew also knew one another. One big happy family. It was part of her still being twenty years old.

A car turned in from the highway and Parker interrupted her.

“You got a customer.”

“Ethel’s minding the store.” Ethel was a cow of a girl, about twenty-five, somewhat retarded. She lived at the hotel and worked for Madge, cleaning the units when they were vacated, sometimes taking over in the office. Where she’d come from and what connection she had with Madge, Parker neither knew nor cared. Some people thought she was Madge’s daughter.

Madge kept talking. Every once in a while she’d pause or ask a question, and Parker would have to rouse himself and reply. Madge liked to talk too much, but she was valuable, and it was worth while to put up with her. Hers was the safest place in eastern Pennsylvania.

Ethel passed by the window, carrying a key, followed by a teenage couple with their arms around each other’s waists. The girl looked frightened; the boy looked intense. After a minute, Ethel came back alone, headed for the office. Behind Parker, Madge still talked. She was asking questions now, trying to store up more information on comings and goings to pass on to the next friend who stopped by. Parker answered in monosyllables “In jail.” “Out in California some place.” “Dead.”

At last another car pulled in from the highway. Parker finished the warm liquor and said no to a second drink. He half-listened to Madge, and half-listened for footsteps on the walk. He heard them and waited, and then there was a knock at the door.

Handy. But, just in case, he said to Madge, “Answer it for me, will you?”

“Sure. You in trouble, Parker?”

“No.”

Madge shrugged, still in a good humour, and went over to open the door. “Hello, Handy! Come on in.”

“What say, Madge?” Handy was tall and lean as a one-by-twelve, with knobby wrists, a bony face, and stiff, dark hair greying over the ears. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth, and when he took it out it was badly lipped, brown tobacco showing through wet grey paper.

“It’s real good to see you, Handy,” said Madge. “Hold on, I’ll get another glass.”

Parker said, “Later on, Madge.”

“Business,” Madge replied. “It’s always business with you, Parker.” She put a hand on Handy’s arm. “Come on over to the office later, we’ll get drunk.”

“Sure thing, Madge.” Handy grinned, and held the door open for her. She went through and he closed the door and turned to Parker. “She’s a good girl.”

“She talks too much. How’ve you been?”

“So-so. Never any static on that armoured car job. You read the papers on it?”

Parker shook his head. That was three months ago, he and Handy and two others had taken an armoured car in New Jersey. If it wasn’t for this Outfit thing, he’d still be in Florida, living on the take from that job. He and Handy had split it down the middle, because the other two had tried a cross and it hadn’t worked for them.

“They never even got a beginning,” Handy said. He went over to the bureau and crushed his cigarette in the ash tray. It sizzled. Then he pulled a box of small-sized wooden matches from his pocket, got one out, and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Between cigarettes, he always sucked on a wooden match. He turned to Parker and said, “You remember what I told you after that job? I told you it was my last one. I’m retiring.”

Parker nodded. Handy quit after every job he’d been doing it for ten years or more.

“I mean it this time,” Handy told him, as though he knew what Parker was thinking. “I been up in Presque Isle, Maine. They got them an air force base up there, and I’m buying in on a diner, right across the road from the main gate. Open all night, I short-order a good egg when I put my mind to it, so I’ll work the nights myself.”

“Good luck.”

“Damn right.” Handy moved over and sat down on the edge of the bed. “I been in the business too long. I’m a lucky man, Parker. You, too. Both of us, too damn lucky. But there’s no string goes on for ever, and I figure mine’s just about played out. I’ll settle down in the Presque Isle and short-order a few eggs and let the rest of the world go by.” He nodded, and prodded at his teeth with the match.

Handy was wearing grey corduroy pants and a red-and-black hunting jacket. Parker looked at him and could imagine him running a diner, but, at the same time, he knew Handy would come back in whenever he was offered a seat in the game. All the diner meant was that Handy would be going back to the same place every time from now on. But he wouldn’t be turning down any jobs that looked good. He’d driven down to see Parker knowing nothing of the reason for the summons, and his presence here was proof that he wouldn’t be short-ordering eggs everynight for the rest of his life.

Parker pulled the blind down over the window and crossed the room to sit in the easy chair by the bureau. “This isn’t a job I called you about,” he said. “Not the regular kind, anyway.”

“What kind, then?”

Parker filled him in on what had happened, the killer who’d missed, the letters to the pros, taking care of Menner, and knocking over The Three Kings.

Handy listened to it all, poking at his teeth with the match, and when Parker was done he said, “I been thinking. Out of the people I know, there’s at least eight’ll be real happy to get that letter of yours. They’ll go right out and do jobs they been thinking about all these years.” He grinned and nodded. “This Bronson and his friends, I bet they’re hurting right now.”

“They’ll hurt more.” Parker lit a cigarette. “Anyway, I know where Bronson is. I’m going there.”

“What else?”

“I could use a man beside me. I’m not in this one for the dough, so I’ll give you the take from the poker game and The Three Kings. Forty-two hundred. Plus whatever we pick up in Bronson’s house.”

“I wasn’t in on those two. Who give me the dough from them?”

“Make it worth your while. Bronson may not have much on him.”

Handy shrugged. “Keep the dough, Parker. We known each other for years. We’ll split the take from Bronson, and call the rest for old time’s sake.”

Parker frowned. He didn’t like it that way. He said, “A split all the way, then. Twenty-one hundred for each of us, plus Bronson.”

“Why?” Handy left the match in his mouth while he fumbled for another cigarette. “Why you want to give money away all of a sudden?”

“I’m not giving it away. I’m making it worth your while. You don’t want to do a job for nothing.”

Handy watched himself light the new cigarette. He leaned over to drop the match into an ash tray and then shrugged. “All right,” he said. “A split all the way.” He lipped the cigarette, then grinned and looked over at Parker. “I could use the money, anyway.”

“For the diner.”

“Sure, for the diner.” Handy settled back on the bed, relaxing. “When do you want to go after this Bronson?”

“Early next week. By then, the Outfit’ll have been hit a few times. I want to be sure this guy Karns won’t be in any hurry to cause trouble when he takes over.”

“When do you want to go to Buffalo?”

“Tomorrow. We can use the time getting set up. How’s your car? Hot?”

“Not a bit. Paid cash for it in Bangor. Absolutely legitimate.”

“Same name as with the diner?”

“Sure. My own.”

“We’ll use mine then. To be on the safe side. It can’t be traced back to me.”

“It’s a mace?”

“Yeah. I got it off Chemy, in Georgia. You know, the little guy with the brother?”

“Sure. It should be okay, then.”

“It is.”

“All right.” Handy got to his feet. “I’m gonna stop in with Madge for a while. Come along?”

“Not tonight.”

“See you in the morning, then.”

Handy went out, and Parker switched off the light. He sat by the window, smoking, and looking out at the highway. Handy was troubling him. Buying a car, buying it legitimate. Buying into a diner, and planning to work in it. And being willing to come into a job for nothing out of sentimentality.

It was a bad sign when a man like Handy started owning things and started thinking he could afford friendships. Possessions tie a man down and friendships blind him. Parker owned nothing, the men he knew were just that, the men he knew, not his friends and they owned nothing. Sure, under the name of Charles Willis he had pieces of a few businesses here and there, but that was for tax reasons. He stayed away from those places, had nothing to do with them, didn’t try to get a nickel out of them. What Handy was doing was something else again buying things to have them. And working with a man, not for a profit, but because he likedhim.

When a man like Handy started craving possessions and friendships, it meant he was losing the leanness. It was a bad sign.

2

SYRACUSE STARTED FLAT, with used-car dealers and junkyards. Then came stucco bars and appliance stores in converted clapboard houses. It was late Friday afternoon, with rush hour and weekend traffic starting to overlap. Parker pushed the Olds through the traffic, making the best time he could. South Salina Street. The stores got taller and older, the traffic heavier, till they were downtown, where all the streets were one way the wrong way.

“I hate this city,” Parker said.

“It’s a city,” Handy replied. “They’re all like this.”

“I hate them all, then. Except resort towns. Miami, Vegas, you don’t run into this kind of thing.”

“You’re like me, you like a little town. You ever been to Presque Isle?”

“No.”

“You should see the winters. Snow over your head.”

“Sounds great.”

Handy laughed. “I like it,” he said. “We turn at the next corner. You make a right.”

“It’s one way the other way.”

“Oh, yeah. Take the next right and circle around. I forgot about the one-way stuff.”

The next corner was no good either. The cross street was one way, in the same direction as the block before it. Parker ran on down another block in time to get stopped by the traffic light. Women in heavy coats carrying clothing-store boxes massed around the car in a herd. It wasn’t December yet, but the Christmas decorations were up. A few Thanksgiving decorations were still up, too; nobody’d remembered to take them down.

The light turned green and Parker made the right. The next cross street still was one way the wrong way. “They got any oneway streets in Presque Isle?”

“Maybe one or two. You can live there all your life and not have to worry about it.”

“Maybe I’ll go there some day.”

“Stop in the diner, I’ll fry you an egg.”

“Thanks.”

The next street allowed them to go in the direction they wanted.

Handy said, “I’m sorry about this. I wish I knew somebody in Buffalo, then we could of just by-passed this town.”

“It’d be the same in Buffalo.”

“Yeah, but we’d bethere.”

“After you make the connection, we’ll get up north of town by the thruway and stop in at a motel. I don’t want to drive any more after this. We can get to Buffalo tomorrow and still have plenty of time.”

“Okay, good. Park anywhere.”

“Sure.”

There weren’t any parking spaces. They passed the building they wanted, and there still weren’t any parking spaces. The curb for the last half-block to South Salina Street on the right was empty of cars, but lined with No Parkingsigns. Parker would have been willing to go around the block again, but to go around the block again, he’d have to go halfway around the city, so he pulled to the curb in the forbidden zone and shut off the engine. Let them give him a ticket. The car was a mace anyway. And he wouldn’t have it more than a week or two. Once the job was done, he’d unload it. So let them copy down the licence number in their little books and pile the tickets on the hood like snow.

They both got out of the car. Parker locked it, and they walked back down the block to the building they wanted, two tall men in hunting jackets and caps among the milling herd of stocky women with their arms full of packages.

It was an old building, with plaster walls, painted a bad green. There were two elevators, but only one of them was running. Because it was nearly six o’clock, the old man who ran the one elevator was sitting on his stool with his coat on, waiting for the last few tenants to come down so he could go home. He frowned when he saw Parker and Handy, because he knew they’d be keeping one of the tenants past six o’clock.

“Everybody’s gone home,” he said, hoping they’d believe him and go away.

Handy had called earlier today, from Binghamton. “Our man’s still here. Third floor we want.”

Handy’s man was Amos Klee, and on the directory between the elevators it said: AMOS KLEE, Confidential Investigations. Klee was a licenced, bonded private detective, but if he’d tried to make a living, as a private detective in a city like this with an office in a building like this one he would have starved to death in a month. Klee had one priceless asset which paid his rent and kept him in spending money. That asset was his pistol permit. Plural. Pistol permits. The State of New York had given Amos Klee three pieces of paper each of which allowed him, for purposes of business, to own and to possess and to carry a pistol. Three pieces of paper, three pistols. Klee normally owned between fifty and a hundred pistols, but he never had more than three at a time where they might be noticed.

Pistols were Klee’s business. Revolvers and automatics, and, occasionally, shotguns and rifles. Just twice in his career he had been asked for machine guns, and both times he’d been able to supply the order. Both times the customer had had to wait a bit, but Amos Klee had eventually supplied the order.

With an ordinary pistol it was easier. Same day service. Call him in the morning drop in in the afternoon, and pick up the merchandise. Simple. And later on, if you wanted, Klee would buy the pistol back at half the original price. He would then rotate barrel and grip with another pistol, clean it, relube it, if necessary, and sell it again. If he was offered a pistol he hadn’t had in stock before, he’d buy it at a very low price, less than a quarter what he would eventually ask for it, because with a gun new to him there was the additional work of filing the serial numbers away. As a sideline, he did a small business in fake collector’s items. He had done three or four Dance Bros & Park .44 cap-and-ball revolvers that only an expert with a magnifying glass could prove false.

Because Klee’s telephone had been tapped once and he had come close to losing licence, permits, and all, during the call Handy had made from Binghamton this morning he hadn’t mentioned guns at all.

“Klee speaking.”

“Mister Klee, you don’t know me, but Dr Hall of Green Bay recommended you to me. I intend to be in Syracuse next Monday afternoon, and if you’re free, I’d like to discuss a matter of some delicacy with you.”

“On Monday?”

“Or later today.”

“Monday would be best. What’s the problem?”

“Well, I’d rather discuss that in person.”

“Is it divorce work?”

“Well, yes.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t handle divorce work.”

Handy had apologized, and hung up. Mentioning Dr Hall of Green Bay had told Klee that he was a customer for a pistol. And Klee demanded that all pistol customers suggest two times when they could drop in to see him, and the one he said noto would be the one when they should arrive. If his phone was being tapped again, and if the law ever did catch on to the Dr Hall from Green Bay gambit, he wanted to be sure he was raided on the wrong day.

So Klee was in, and waiting for them. The old man in the elevator grumbled to himself as he took them up to the third floor, and when they were getting out he said, “I go home six o’clock. You hang around too long, you’ll have to walk down.”

They ignored him and went down the hall. The same green paint covered the plaster walls here. Klee’s office was flanked on one side by a food broker and on the other by a novelty company. Handy led the way into Klee’s office.

It was a one-room office with a wooden railing across at midpoint to create the illusion that the area behind it was a private office, the area in front, a reception-and-waiting room. Klee was alone at his cluttered desk at the rear of the office. He was very short and very fat with wire-framed spectacles and lifeless black hair. The front of his suit was littered with cigarette ashes. He had a surprisingly shy smile and a fond sensual way of handling guns.

It had often occurred to his customers that Klee was a setup to be robbed. Go in to buy a gun, buy it, turn it around and hold Klee up, then walk out. Klee would think twice before squawking to the law. But most of Klee’s customers liked him, admired his merchandise, and trusted his discretion, so they chose other targets instead.

Besides, there was a story: One time, a young hotshot had decided to hold Klee up, but he’d talked about it too much and the word had got back to Klee. The kid made a call, and when he came in to get the gun Klee gave it to him. He checked it. It was loaded, so he turned it around and told Klee to get his hands up. Instead, Klee reached for another gun. The hotshot hadn’t intended to kill him, but it looked as though he’d have to, so he pulled the trigger and the gun blew up in his hand, mangling it badly. Klee had laughed and asked if the hotshot wanted him to call the Police Rescue Squad? The hotshot stuffed his ruined hand into his coat pocket and ran out. Klee never heard of him again. Nobody else ever tried to hold him up.

Klee waved from the desk, calling, “Come on in! Handy, it’s you! I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it.”

“How you doing, Amos?”

“Not bad, not bad. Got a nice one for you, Handy, a real nice one.” He glanced over at Parker. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Do I know you?”

“It’s Parker, Amos,” Handy said. He was grinning. “He had his face done over.”

“Well, I’ll be! I’d never recognize you.” His smile faded. “You wanted two guns? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch it, Handy. You should have said, ‘My partner and I,’ or something like that.”

“I’ve already got a gun,” Parker told him. “I got it down south. I didn’t know I’d be coming through here.”

“Oh, that’s all right. You’ll buy from me again.”

“Sure.”

Klee struggled up from his desk now, showing himself to be even shorter and fatter than he’d looked while sitting down. He turned towards the old iron safe in the corner. “I suppose you’re in a hurry.”

Handy said, “The elevator operator’s in a hurry.”

“He’s getting worse every day, that old man. One of these days, he’ll refuse to run the elevator at all, and maybe thenthey’ll fire him. Maybe.”

Klee smiled over his shoulder at them, then crouched down in front of the safe to work the combination. His chubby fingers spun the dial back and forth, he pushed the handle down, and the safe opened. He removed a flat wooden box, of the kind jewellers keep particularly precious necklaces in, and brought it over to the desk.

“A real nice piece,” he said, opening the box. “Iver Johnson, model 66, snub. She’ll take .38 S & W or Colt New Police, five shots. The rear sight has been removed, and she’s got new plastic grips.”

He took the revolver from the box the box was lined with green velvet and held it tenderly in his hands. His hands and the gun were short and stubby. His hands fondled the gun as he walked about it. “You see the rounded front sight? Won’t catch in your pocket like the Cadet. They call this one the Trailsman. Nice and small, handy for pocket or purse, like they say.” He giggled, and reluctantly handed the gun over to Handy.

Handy looked it over. “This the best you got?”

“For the price, for the size, yes. In a revolver. Now, if you want an automatic, I’ve got a nice Starfire .380, seven shots. She’s not quite as small as this, but, of course, thinner.”

“What do you want for this one?”

“Seventy.”

“And the automatic?”

“Eighty.”

“This one’s okay.”

“She’s a very nice little revolver, she really is.” Klee closed the safe, leaving the box out. “I’ve sold her twice before, and never any complaints.”

“That’s good. You’ve got ammunition?”

“Of course.” Klee went back to his desk, sat down, and opened the bottom right-hand drawer. He took a small box of cartridges out and set it on the desk.

Handy didn’t bother to load the revolver. He stowed it away inside his hunting jacket, put the box of cartridges in his pants pocket, and started to pay Klee for the gun.

But Parker objected. “No. I’m financing this one, remember?”

“Oh. Sure.”

Parker counted the money out on to Klee’s desk.

Klee watched, smiling, and then said, “Remember now, I’ll buy her back when you’re done with her. Half-price. Thirty-five dollars, if you want to bring her back.”

“If we get the chance,” Handy promised.

“That’s good, that’s good. And you, too, Parker. I’ll take yours off your hands when you’re finished with it. What is it?”

“Smith & Wesson, .38, short barrel.”

“Model 10?”

“I think so.”

Klee considered. “If it’s in good condition I can give you twenty for it.”

“All right,” said Parker. “If we pass through on the way back.”

“Of course. I’ll be seeing you.”

“So long.”

3

HANDY POINTED. “That one,” he said. “To the left of the building with the neon.”

Parker looked at the house where Bronson lived and nodded. He pulled the Olds over to the curb and stopped, then gazed across the mass of stone.

It was Saturday night. A thousand miles away, the Club Cockatoo was being robbed, but Parker didn’t know that yet. Neither did Bronson who would get a call about it later that night.

Parker shut off the engines. “Let’s go for a walk.”

“Right.”

They got out of the car. The park was beside them; they walked along it, not crossing till they were opposite the next cross street. They went down the cross street, and turned right, and walked along towards the rear of Bronson’s house. They walked slowly, casually, two big men in hunting jackets and caps, their hands in their pockets, not speaking to each other. They weren’t going in after Bronson tonight, this walk was just to have a look around.

Handy murmured. “There’s the garage.”

“Driveway, there.”

They strolled along, looking in all the parked cars they passed, studying the driveways as they went by. They continued to the next corner, then turned back towards the park again.

Handy said, “It’s wide open. Does that figure?”

“Maybe Bronson’s got a front around here, so it would look funny for him to have guards at the driveways.”

“I guess so.”

“He’ll have them in there with him, though.”

Parker thought about it as they walked along. This was Bronson’s front. Bronson’s cover. He probably had his life here completely separated from his life in the Outfit like Handy with his diner in Presque Isle, Maine, or Parker when he was being Charles Willis. Maybe Bronson figured this Buffalo cover was enough to protect him.

So this should tie the score. Bronson breaks into Charles Willis; Parker breaks into Buffalo.

They turned right, walked past the front of Bronson’s place, and on to the end of the block. Then they crossed over to the park again, walked back to the car, climbed in, and Parker drove away.

So that was Bronson’s hide-out. A big pile of stones, set back from the street, the grounds surrounded by high hedges. Neighbours far away on both sides. Looking at it from the park, on the right, there was a school for the blind; on the left, some fraternal organization’s meeting-house. Both sides empty at night, anyway. The deserted park across the street. And nothing but his own garage in back. Bronson was isolated in there, a sitting duck. You could set off dynamite, and no one would hear a thing.

“You want days or nights?” Handy asked.

“I’ll take nights. I slept this afternoon on the way in.”

“Okay.”

They headed north, through Kenmore and Tonawanda, and found a motel near the thruway. The woman in the office talked all the time, reminding Parker of Madge, except she was fat. She finally showed them their unit and gave them the key and went away. Parker and Handy carried their luggage inside.

Handy looked at his watch. “Ten o’clock. I’ll see you at ten in the morning.”

“Right.”

Parker went back to the car, drove south again into Buffalo, and over to Bronson’s house. He parked across the street and down the block a way so that he was facing the house. His watch told him it was ten-twenty.

He got pencil and notebook out of the glove compartment and made a rough sketch of the front of the house, numbering the windows from one to eleven. Five of the windows were lighted. He wrote: 10.20 1-2-3-6-7. He had passed the rear of the house coming in, and there had been no lights on back there at all.

The notes finished, he put the pencil and notebook down on the seat beside him, lit a cigarette, and settled down to wait.

At eleven-forty, a prowl car went by, headed east. Parker jotted it down.

At eleven-fifty-five, window 3 went out. At eleven-fifty-seven, window 9 lit up. He wrote it down. At twelve-ten, window 9 went out. He noted that.

At twelve-twenty windows 6 and 7 went off. Parker waited, but no other lights went on to replace them. He started the car and drove around the block, but there still weren’t any fights on in back. He returned to his parking space.

At one-fifteen the prowl car went by again, once more headed east. So it was a belt, and not a back-and-forth deal. The belt took about an hour and a half. Parker wrote it down.

After the prowl car disappeared from his rearview mirror, he got out of the Olds and crossed the street. The street lights were widely spaced here and all of them were on the park side. He was only a shadow when he slipped through the opening in the hedge and moved at an angle across the lawn towards the lighted windows. He peered over a sill at the room inside.

An oval oak table, with a chandelier above, and five men sitting around the table. It took Parker a minute to figure out what they were doing. Playing some game.

Monopoly. For real money, one-cent to the dollar.

Parker studied them and picked out Bronson right away. He had a rich, irritated, overfed look. The other four had the stolid truculence of club fighters, strikebreakers, or bodyguards. In this case, bodyguards. As Parker watched, Bronson bought Marvin Gardens.

Parker moved away from the window, around the house, keeping close to the wall. There was an apartment over the garage, which he hadn’t noticed before. There was a light on up there, and record-player music came softly from the open window. As Parker watched, a Negro in an undershirt showed in the window. The chauffeur, undoubtedly. Parker continued around the house.

There were no other lights on. Someone had gone to bed in the room behind window 9. The chauffeur was in his apartment over the garage. Bronson and four bodyguards were playing Monopoly downstairs. The one who had gone to bed, Bronson’s wife? Probably. So there were six in the house, plus the chauffeur. Parker went back to the car and wrote it all down in the notebook.

Two-fifty, the prowl car again.

Three-ten, window 3 went on. A minute later it went off again, then an upstairs pair of windows, 6 and 7, went on. They stayed on.

Who would have left the game? Bronson. Window 3 would have shown the light he’d turned on to go upstairs. Windows 6 and 7 were probably his bedroom. Windows 1 and 2, where the game was, stayed on.

Three forty-five, windows 6 and 7 went off. Then window 8 came on, stayed on for five minutes, and went off. So, was 8 Bronson’s bedroom? Maybe he had a den or something upstairs, and he’d spent some time there before going to bed. Parker wrote it down, then added a question mark.

He drove around the block again. The chauffeur’s light was out, and there were still no lights on in the back of the house.

The bodyguard’s didn’t even cover the back of the house. They were still in front, playing Monopoly.

Parker didn’t believe it. He parked around in front again, left the car, and went over to the house to check. And there they were, all four of them, still playing Monopoly at the oval oak table.

Parker went back to the car. He wrote it down and put an exclamation point after it.

When window 3 went on at four-fifty, and windows 1 and 2 went off, he knew they were all going to bed. None of them would stay up all night, to be sure. They would all go to bed. When window 3 went black Parker started the Olds, and drove around to the back of the house. A row of lights came on on the third floor. He waited until they went off, one by one.

Now the entire house was in darkness. There was no one awake to give an alarm. Parker went back to his parked car and settled down to wait for morning. He noted the prowl car’s infrequent but regular passage, and also that the two cops in it never gave him a second glance. He’d been sitting here all night, but they hadn’t bothered him.

At seven-thirty, he put pencil and notebook in his pocket, left the Olds, and walked into the park. There was a blacktop path with some benches along it. He sat on one, bundled up in the hunting jacket, and chain-smoked while he watched the house and waited for ten o’clock.

At five past nine, a black Cadillac came out through the opening in the hedge, and turned right. Squinting, Parker could see the Negro chauffeur at the wheel and one man in back. That would be Bronson. Another black Cadillac came out from the cross street to the left, turned, and fell in behind the first one. There were four men in it. The two Cadillacs drove away. So now there would be no one in the house except Bronson’s wife.

At nine-thirty, a cab stopped in front of the house and a Negro woman got out, carrying a brown paper bag. She went into the house. Cook or maid or cleaning woman, her work clothes in the bag.

At five minutes to ten, another cab came along and stopped, this one pulled to the curb behind the Olds. Handy got out and paid the driver. Parker got to his feet and strolled along the path, looking over at Handy. Handy checked the Olds first, then looked around until he spied Parker. He came towards him across the grass. Parker sat down on the nearest bench.

Handy sat down next to him. “How’d it go?”

Parker got out the notebook and read off what had happened in the past twelve hours, with his own commentary and explanations. Handy listened, nodding, and said, “He’s making it easy for us.”

“It doesn’t figure.”

“Sure it does. He thinks he’s safe here. The bodyguards are for just-in-case, but he doesn’t really think he’ll need them.”

“We’ll go in Thursday. That’ll give us five days to double-check.”

“Okay.”

Parker got to his feet. “See you tonight.”

“Right.”

Parker looked over at the Olds. “Maybe we ought to move the car.”

“I won’t need it till after dark.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Parker went over and got into the car and drove it away. He took it halfway around the park, locked it, and walked back through the park to Handy. “It’s over there. You follow the path straight through.”

“Okay.”

Parker gave him the keys then walked out of the park. He found a cab, and went back to the motel.

4

WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, Parker phoned Bett Harrow in Miami. She wasn’t in her room so he had her paged, dropping dimes and quarters into the phone while he waited. Handy was in Buffalo, sitting in the park across from Bronson’s house, a job that had become considerably dull by now. Bronson spent most of his time at home, and had no visitors. Parker’s estimate of the household and the position of particularly important rooms had been verified over and over again.

There was only one reason for watching the house now. Bronson might decide to leave, might suddenly pack his luggage, and go off to some other city. Handy had suggested going in before Thursday since the job seemed simpler than they could have hoped for, but Parker wanted to wait. He wanted to be sure the Outfit had been hit a few times before he got rid of Bronson. So they waited, and continued the monotonous job of watching Bronson’s house. Hardly anything was written in the notebook any more.

If things went right, he could be back in Florida by Friday or Saturday. That was why he was calling Bett Harrow, to be sure she would still be there and that she still had the gun. If she’d got tired of waiting and had already turned it over to the law, he wanted to know that, too.

When she finally came on the line, he said, “This is Chuck.”

“Oh! Where are you?”

“Not in Florida. You still got the gun?”

“It was very clever of you to figure out why I took it.”

“No it wasn’t. There couldn’t be any other reason.”

“I might have just wanted a gun.” He could hear the sardonic smile in her voice.

“Yeah. Do you still have it?”

“Of course. You asked me to wait a month, didn’t you?”

“All right. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Figure to see me in your room sometime Saturday night.”

“Sounds exciting.”

“Yeah.” He hung up and left the phone booth.

The booth was in the gas station across the road from the motel. Parker went out to the road, waited for a break in the traffic, then strode across. It was six-fifteen; the rush hour traffic was lessening. Parker went into his motel room and stretched out on the bed to wait for ten o’clock.

He was oddly tense and impatient. He didn’t like this feeling, he hadn’t expected it. Always, when he was working, when the job was being set up and he was waiting for it to start, when everything was planned and ready, and all he had to do was look at the clock and wait for it to tell him now always, during that time, he felt compact and timeless, almost bodiless, without impatience or tension or boredom or nervousness of any kind. One time, in Spokane, he was on a warehouse job, and he’d had to sit in silent darkness inside a truck for six hours, not even able to smoke, and he’d done it with no trouble at all. It was while working, while a job was being set up and run through, that he felt most alive and most calm.

Except this time. This time he couldn’t get into the mood. This time he wasn’t finding the calm satisfaction in planning the job.

Because it wasn’t an ordinary job, that was why, and he knew it. This wasn’t money he was after, it was a man. It wasn’t for profit, it was personal reasons. He felt strange using the methods and experience of his work for personal reasons.

He found himself thinking of Bett Harrow. He would bed her Saturday night, first thing. Before talking about the gun and whatever demands she had to make, before any business at all. Do it right away, because there might be bitterness later, and he wouldn’t want it spoiled by bitterness.

At least, in this way, towards sex, he was reacting as though on a normal job. He never had a craving for a woman while working, not an immediate, right-now, sort of craving. It was a part of his pattern, part of the way he lived. Immediately after a job, he was always insatiable, satyric, like a groom on a honeymoon after a long and honourable engagement. Gradually, the pace would slacken, the pressure would ease, and the need would grow less fierce, until by the time the next job came along, he was an ascetic again. He wouldn’t touch a woman or even think much about women until that job was over. But once a job was completed, the cycle would start again.

It had always been that way. When Lynn, his wife, had been alive, it had been a tough pattern for her to get used to, but now that Lynn was dead, he worked out his cycle on the bodies of transients like Bett Harrow, which was easier for all concerned.

Saturday, he knew, he would be raring. So it would have to be pleasure before business that night.

He had been lying on the bed, thinking, but now he got to his feet and paced around the room. His damn impatience was gnawing at him, keeping him from resting. He looked at his watch. It was only twenty-five minutes to seven. He shrugged back into his coat and left the motel, headed for the diner, wondering how long he could make dinner last.

Just until tomorrow night. Take it easy, he told himself. One more night.

5

HANDY GNAWED at a wooden match. “I don’t like wasting time on the chauffeur.”

They were parked in front of Bronson’s house, against the opposite curb. Parker was at the wheel, Handy beside him. It was ten-forty, Thursday night.

Parker said, “The chauffeur’s the only one outside the main house. They’re liable to have a phone to him back there or something like that. If one of them gets word to him there’s no way we can stop him sending for help.”

“I suppose so.” Handy agreed doubtfully.

“Besides, his windows overlook the back of the house, and that’s the way we’ll be going in.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” Handy shook his head and threw the match away. “I’m not used to this idea, breaking into a house. I’ll keep my mouth shut and let you do the planning.”

This was the second time they’d disagreed and Handy had admitted being wrong. The first time, Handy had wanted to wait till three or four in the morning, when the whole crowd would be asleep, but Parker had explained to him what was wrong with that.

“That way, there’s six of them in six different rooms, and a silent house. It’d take us too long to get them all squared away. If we wait till the Monopoly game’s on and Bronson’s wife is watching television in that little room on the right and Bronson is up in his den, we’ve got six people in three rooms, a house with enough noise in it so we can move around, and the only person on the second floor is the one we’re after. We won’t have to brace the bodyguards at all. We can by-pass them and go straight for Bronson. Just so we keep an eye on the stairs, that’s all.”

That last point, about by-passing the bodyguards, was what had mulled around in Handy’s head for the last few hours. If they were going to ignore the bodyguards, why not ignore the chauffeur, too?

Now that had been straightened out, and they were in agreement, Parker looked over at the house. “There goes the light on in the den. It’s time.”

“Right.”

They got out of the Olds and walked down the street on the park side, strolling, like friends out for a constitutional. Tonight, both wore topcoats, snug-fitting, to allow freedom of movement, and hats tilted back from their foreheads. Their shoes were rubber-soled and rubber-heeled. They had their hands in their topcoat pockets. Their guns were in their right-hand topcoat pockets.

Now that the time had finally come, Parker felt his tension draining away. At long last, the peace of working hours was spreading through him. It could take an hour to walk around the block; it wouldn’t matter. He was patient, and calm, and certain.

They crossed over, went down the dim cross street, turned right. This narrow street was lit only at the intersections, leaving a pool of darkness in the middle, where the rear driveway to Bronson’s house was. They walked down that way, their shoes silent on the sidewalk, and then slipped through the hedge on to Bronson’s grounds. The blacktop muffled their steps, too; they would have had to be more cautious with gravel.

To their right, was the four-car garage. An outside stairway up the far side led to the apartment above. Parker and Handy, guns now in their hands, hurried across the face of the garage, and then moved slowly and cautiously up the white wooded stairs. The sky was blanketed by cloud masses; it was a moonless, starless, black night. The white stairs were vague grey shapes in the darkness.

At the top was a landing with a door. There was a four-paned window in the door, covered with thick curtains, so that only a vague hint of light came through.

Parker rapped on the door. A sudden startled voice from inside called, “Just a second!”

Parker raised an eyebrow, surprised. He’d expected the chauffeur to ask who it was, and he’d intended saying that Bronson wanted to see him. Which should have been enough to make the chauffeur open the door. The guns would have done the rest, keeping the chauffeur quiet while they went in and tied and gagged him. But the chauffeur hadn’t asked anything at all. Which maybe meant he was expecting somebody. Parker glanced towards the house, but saw nothing. No lights were on in the rear of the house; no one was coming towards the garage.

He’d have to make sure, once they got inside.

The door opened and the chauffeur stood there, wearing black trousers, an undershirt, and brown slippers. He looked at them, at the guns in their hands, took a step backward, crying “Oh my God!” He looked as though he were going to faint. He made no attempt to shut the door again.

Parker had the crazy feeling the chauffeur had been expecting him, that he, Parker, was the one the chauffeur had been waiting for.

The chauffeur’s face was curiously mottled. He kept backing away across the room, shaking his head, gesturing wildly, and murmuring, “My God, my God! I knew it, I knew it. My God, I knew it”

Parker walked in and to the right, and Handy came in after him, shutting the door. Parker said, “Take it easy. Don’t get excited, just take it easy.”

But the chauffeur kept backing away and muttering to himself, until he ended up against the far wall. He stood there, shaking his head, terrified out of his wits, his hands still making vague, half-formed movements.

They were in the living room. It was nicely set up with modern furniture and pole lamps and a large stereo rig against one wall.

Handy was frowning at the chauffeur, just as baffled as Parker. “What’s the matter with you?” He looked at Parker. “What the hell’s the matter with him?”

“I knew it,” mumbled the chauffeur. “I knew it, I knew it, my God, I knew it! Why didn’t I have some sense, why didn’t I”

“I don’t know,” said Parker. “You. Shut up.”

The chauffeur immediately shut up. He brought his hands to his sides and kept them there. He stood at a sort of ragged attention, leaning backwards against the wall.

And then all of a sudden Parker understood. He laughed and said, “Watch him, Handy. I’ll be right back.”

“Sure thing.”

“Mister,” said the chauffeur. His voice was hoarse. He sounded as though he were going to start pleading.

“Just shut up a minute, friend.” Parker walked on by him.

Beyond the living room was a dining room and a hall that led to a kitchen, with a bedroom and bathroom off that to the right. Parker went to the bedroom door and turned the knob. It was locked.

“All right, come on out.” When nothing happened, he said, “Nobody’s going to hurt you, come on out. If I have to shoot the lock off, you won’t like it.”

A key grated in the lock, and the door was opened hesitantly. The woman who came, reluctant and blinking, from the dark bedroom was short and somewhat plump, and sour-looking. She was probably in her early thirties, and wore the kind of black dress women wear to cheap bars. Her hair was dyed a brassy blonde, and her skin was white.

“He forced me,” she said, looking at Parker’s chest rather than his face. She had a twangy voice and sullenness riddled it. “I didn’t wanna come up here. He forced me.”

“Sure. Come on along.”

“It’s the truth,” she insisted sullenly.

Parker took her elbow and led her back to the living room. When Handy saw her, he grinned in sudden understanding. He turned to the chauffeur. “Is thatwhat you were worried about?”

“He forced me,” repeated the woman sullenly. She said it as though it were something she’d memorized for a pageant she hadn’t wanted to be a part of anyway.

Handy shook his head, grinning. “Listen,” he said to the chauffeur. “You weren’t planning on going to schoolwith her up here, were you?”

The chauffeur blinked and stared at him.

“It’ll go hard on you if you were figuring on studying geometry with her or anything contaminating like that,” Handy said to him. “Were you?”

The chauffeur was getting his own complexion back. He essayed a small smile in answer to Handy’s grin and shook his head.

“That’s all right, then,” said Handy. “Just so you weren’t figuring on learning anything.”

The chauffeur’s smile faded away again, as he stared at the gun in Handy’s hand.

“This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” Handy told him. “Or with the woman.”

“He forced me.”

“Shut up,” Parker said.

Handy said, “We’re going in after Bronson, that’s all. And we thought it might be a good idea to just tie you up to keep you out of trouble.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” said the chauffeur. “Well, I’ll be double-die-damned.”

“So you and the lady lie down on the floor,” Handy told him.

“I didn’t wanna come up here.”

Parker knocked her down. “You’re supposed to lie down on the floor,’ he said.

She started to snuffle.

The chauffeur stretched out on the floor, seeming relieved at the chance to get off his feet. Parker stood covering the two of them while Handy went to get something to tie them.

The chauffeur looked up and said, “You going to kill him?”

“Probably. You’ll have to find a new job for yourself.”

“You going to kill her, too?”

“His wife? No.”

“Then I won’t have to look for a new job. Just make sure you tie me good and tight, so she’ll know I couldn’t of got loose and warned him.”

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like him?”

“He’s a royal son of a bitch.”

“That’s right,” Parker said.

Handy came back with a ball of heavy twine and two extension cords. He used the twine to secure their hands behind their backs, and the extension cords to tie their ankles together. He had found undershirts in a drawer of the dresser and he used these to gag them.

When the two of them were tied and gagged, Parker went through the apartment turning off the lights. Then he and Handy went out to the landing, shutting the door behind them. They went down the stairs and crossed the blacktop towards the dark hulk of the house.

“The poor bastard,” said Handy, speaking softly. “We sure picked the wrong night.”

6

HANDY HAD THREE small, slender tools wrapped in flannel tucked inside his topcoat. He took them out now and unwrapped them. It was pitch-black at the rear of the house, but Handy could see with his hands. His tools made muted, metallic sounds against the lock on the back door and then the door came open as though the lock had been made of butter. Handy wrapped his tools up again, tucked them inside his topcoat, and took his .38 back out of his pocket.

Parker went in first. He had his gun in his right hand, a pencil flash in his left. There was electric tape over the tip of the flash, leaving only a small opening for the fight to peep through.

They had entered a stair well. Concrete stairs led down to the basement, wooden stairs led to the upper floors. Straight ahead was another door, unlocked. Parker opened it cautiously, to find more darkness. He aimed the light into the darkness and saw that they were in a big, square kitchen. He crossed it, Handy behind him, and on the other side there were three doors. One led to a small dining room on the right, one to a deep pantry, and a third to a hallway. At the far end of the hallway, there was light. As Parker started down the hallway, clocks all over the house began striking eleven.

They waited for the clocks to finish, unmoving. When the chiming ended, Handy whispered, “Jesus!”

Parker started forward again, and another chime sounded. He thought at first it was another clock, then he realized it must be the front door. “Hold it,” he whispered.

Ahead, at the far end of the hallway, one of the bodyguards went by. They waited, heard the front door open, heard voices, then a door closed and the bodyguard went back to the Monopoly game.

Parker moved again. The two of them hurried silently down the hallway to where it opened into the main front hall. Someone was going upstairs. They heard a casual voice. “Hello, Mr Bronson. A real mess, that Cockatoo situation.”

Another voice muttered something unintelligible.

“Very nice house, Mr Bronson. Really very fine. Really.”

“You said that last time.”

That would be Bronson. He sounded bitter about something.

“I must mean it, then.”

“Yeah. Well, Quill, come on into the office.”

There was silence, and then a door closed upstairs.

Parker whispered, “Watch the stairs.”

Handy nodded.

Parker moved to the right, at an angle, and came to the doorway where the bodyguards were playing Monopoly. He glanced in, saw them sitting there, concentrating on the game. They would be there another three or four hours. They played Monopoly all the time, as though they were addicted to it. They could be ignored.

Parker hadn’t expected a visitor. Bronson had had only one visitor in the five days they’d been watching his house, and that had been a youngish man with a briefcase who’d showed up in a chauffeur-driven limousine Sunday night. He’d looked like an insurance adjustor, except for the limousine. He’d stayed half an hour, and then had gone away again.

He wondered if this were the same one, back again. Whether it was or not, he was holding things up.

Parker went back to Handy and whispered, “They’re at the game again. We can forget them.”

“Right.”

Mrs Bronson was already in bed. They’d seen the light go on and off in her bedroom an hour before. So, except for the visitor, everything was set up the way they’d planned.

Parker led the way up the stairs. They were thickly carpeted, as was the hall on the second floor, so they moved without sound.

The third door on the right should be Bronson’s office. Bronson’s bedroom was beyond that, and his wife’s bedroom farther down, at the end. The hall was dimly lit by electric candelabras. Light gleamed under the door of Bronson’s office.

Parker moved up silently to the door and pressed his ear against it. He heard the stranger’s voice, a monotone. After a minute, he figured out what the stranger was talking about. His name was Quill. There’d been a hit at a place called the Club Cockatoo and he was describing the robbery to Bronson.

Parker smiled to himself. He’d been right. He wondered which of his letters had set off the robbery. He moved away from the door, back down the hall to Handy who was waiting at the head of the stairs. Handy was keeping an eye on the staircase, just in case anyone decided to come up.

Parker whispered, “The guy is called Quill. They’re talking about a robbery.”

Handy grinned. “Just one?”

“I don’t know.”

Parker went back and listened some more. Bronson didn’t like Quill very much. Quill was explaining how come the people who worked at the Club Cockatoo had let the robbers get away with it. Parker listened, as impatient as Bronson, and at last Quill said, “Well, I think we may have learned from this.”

Bronson’s voice was bitter, “And the others?”

“I’d heard there’d been some more.”

“Elevenmore.”

Parker moved away, back to Handy, smiling again. “Twelve,” he whispered. “They been knocked over twelve times.”

“That must have hurt,” said Handy.

“Karns will go along now. Twelve times! He’ll pay us to stop.”

Handy looked over the rail at the stairs and the hallway below. Faintly, the Monopoly players could still be heard. Handy said, “What do you want to do? Tackle him with that guy in there?”

“No. He’s maybe due some place else after he leaves here. We don’t want to keep him and louse up his schedule.”

“What, then?”

“We’ll wait. In Bronson’s bedroom.”

“Right.”

They went down the hall together, past the den door, through which they could faintly hear the murmuring of Quill and Bronson. Parker went in first, shining the pencil flash around, reassuring him the room was empty. Handy came in after him. Parker shut off the flashlight, and they settled down to wait.

They left the hall door partly open, just in case one of the bodyguards should come up, or Mrs Bronson should decide to leave her room. They took their hats off and tossed them on the bed, but kept their topcoats on. Handy sat on the edge of the bed, and Parker stood by the door. They could hear Bronson and Quill talking next door, but couldn’t quite make out the words. They both had their guns in their hands.

They waited about fifteen minutes and then they heard the den door open. “Good night, Mr Bronson.” Bronson muttered something from inside and Quill shut the office door and walked away towards the stairs.

Parker whispered, “Take the stairs. I’m going in after Bronson now.”

“Right.”

As soon as Quill started down the stairs and was out of sight, Handy moved out of the bedroom. He went silently down the hall and stood against the wall by the head of the stairs, covering them.

Parker waited a minute, then went down the hall and opened the door to Bronson’s den. Bronson was standing at the window looking out, his back to the door. Parker studied his back, wondering if there were any reason to spend time talking to Bronson first, and had just about decided there wasn’t any reason to, when Bronson turned around.

Bronson saw him, and gave a start, but recovered quickly. A bitter smile creased his lips and he said, “So you’re Parker.”

“That’s right.” Parker raised the .38.

But there was sudden motion to his right. He turned his head and saw Handy coming on the run. He stepped into the den, and Handy barrelled in after him, saying hoarsely, “They’re coming back up!”

Parker turned to Bronson. “Why?”

“What? Quill’s staying the night.”

“All right. Keep your mouth shut.”

Bronson shook his head. “No. I’ve been wondering if those bodyguards were any damn good. Now I’ll find out.” He raised his head and shouted, “Help!”

Parker shot in irritation and ducked back out to the hall. Behind him, Bronson sagged on to the desk.

Quill and one of the bodyguards were at the head of the stairs. They gaped at Parker and Handy, then turned to run back down again. Parker and Handy fired, but they’d both aimed at the bodyguard, so Quill got away, stumbling over the body which was rolling down the stairs.

“The wife!” said Parker. “Shut her up.”

“Right.”

Handy hurried down the hall and Parker went back into Bronson’s den. Bronson was lying on his face behind the desk. Parker checked him, but he wouldn’t need a booster. He straightened and took the phone off the hook, hoping there was only one trunk line in the house. If all the extensions were on the same line, no calls could be made.

Parker hurried back to the hall. Handy hadn’t come back yet. Parker ran down to the end, by the stairs, just in time to see the three bodyguards starting up. He fired, not hitting anybody, and they ducked back into the room where they’d been playing Monopoly. Parker knelt behind the railing and waited for Handy.

This was a good spot, for right now. Looking over the railing he could see straight down to the foot of the stairs, and across the main hall to the front door. He could also see the room where the bodyguards and Quill were holed up. He could keep them in there, unless they tried going out the window.

Somebody took a shot at him from the doorway down there. He ducked back, waited a beat, and leaned forward in time to see one of them making a dash across the hall for the room on the opposite side, hoping to catch Parker and Handy in a cross fire. Parker slid the nose of the .38 over the top of the railing, dropped the running man, and ducked back out of sight again. They were firing from the room on the right again, the bullets gouging the wall over Parker’s head.

Handy showed up, running in a crouch, ducking down to kneel beside Parker. “Tied and gagged,” he said. “What now?”

“Three left. Two bodyguards and Quill.”

“What about the back stairs?”

“I don’t want a chase. We finish them off in here, It’s private in here. No neighbours, no questions.”

“Okay.”

“Besides, we want time to go through the place. You don’t want to do this for nothing.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“You stay here. Take a shot at them every once in a while. I’ll go down and around outside to the window.”

“Right.”

Parker slid away in a crouch and straightened when he was part way down the hall. He hurried to the far end, where he found the stairs that led to the back door. He started down them, and a sound made him stop. Somebody was coming in through the back door.

Parker waited. Whoever it was, he was being slow and cautious. Occasional faint noises told Parker where he was and what he was doing. He came in the back door, shut it carefully behind him, and then started up the stairs. Parker had shut the second-floor door behind him, so it was inky black in the stair well. He sat on the top step, the .38 in his right hand and the pencil flash in his left, waiting. Both were aimed down at the landing.

The man came slowly up the stairs, and finally reached the landing. He made the turn and started up the other half-flight towards Parker. Parker switched on the pencil flash. It was one of the bodyguards, staring up at him, blinded by the light. Parker fired, and the face fell away. He switched off the light and heard the bodyguard go crashing back down the stairs.

Parker followed him, hurrying. He’d been delayed too long. Handy would be wondering where the hell he was.

He went out the back door and around the outside of the house. He saw the open window the bodyguard had crawled through, trying Parker’s tactic in reverse. He moved up to the window, peered over the edge, and saw the two men inside. The remaining bodyguard was crouched by the doorway, peering out around the corner, an automatic in his hand. Quill was at the far end of the room, sitting in a leather chair, the briefcase on his lap. He had the blank expression of somebody in a waiting room.

Parker called to the bodyguard, “Drop the gun. Don’t turn around.”

But the bodyguard wouldn’t quit. He spun around, firing wildly, and Parker dropped him with one shot. Then he turned and showed the gun to Quill, resting it on the window sill. “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t make any move at all.”

“I’m just sitting here,” Quill answered. He didn’t act particularly worried.

“Handy! Come on down.”

They waited, and, after a minute Handy came in, grinning. He looked around and said, “One more. There’s one missing.”

“I met him on the back stairs. Watch this guy Quill.”

“Right.”

Parker left the window and went around to the back of the house again. He entered and walked through the house to the game room where Handy and Quill were waiting.

Parker went over to Quill. “You know Karns?”

“Not personally. I’ve heard of him.”

“I hear he’ll be taking over.”

“Bronson’s dead?”

“I want you to give Karns a message from me.”

“I take it you’re Parker.”

“That’s right.”

“And since you want me to deliver a message, that means you’ll let me live?”

“Why not?”

Quill smiled. “Exactly. Why not?”

“You heeled, Quill?”

“A gun? I never carry one.”

“I didn’t think so. All right, the message. Tell Karns I’ll start getting in touch with my friends, telling them to forget the Outfit. But it’ll take a while. There’ll probably be a few more robberies before I can get in touch with everybody. This thing’ll be tougher to stop than it was to start. But that was Bronson’s doing, making me start it in the first place. I’ll stop it as soon as I can. You tell Karns that.”

“There may be some more robberies, but you’ll stop them as soon as you can?”

“That’s it. And tell him, if I have to, I can always start in again. And if I happen to be killed by the Outfit, my friends will even the score.” The last was a he, but Karns couldn’t be sure of it.

“I’ll tell him.”

“Good.” Parker turned to Handy. “I’ll keep an eye on this bird while you go through the house.”

“Right.” Handy pocketed his gun and left the room.

“Have you been masterminding these robberies?” Quill asked.

“No. My friends have been doing them on their own.”

“They’ve been very professional robberies.”

“My friends are very professional.”

“Yes, of course.”

They were silent then.

About ten minutes later, Handy came back. “I found a safe,” he said. He turned to Quill. “You know anything about it? What he might have in there?”

“No, I’m sorry, I didn’t know Mr Bronson that well.”

“I’d hate to take the trouble to go in there and not find anything but a lot of paper.” Handy shrugged. “I’ll take the chance.”

This time he was gone longer. Parker sat at the table where the bodyguards had been playing Monopoly, and Quill remained in the leather chair, his hands on the briefcase resting on his lap.

Handy was back in half an hour, grinning. “Jackpot,” he said. “Bronson must of been holding out on the income tax people. Twenty-four grand in the safe. Plus about three hundred I picked up here and there, and some jewellery. We’ll maybe get five or six on the jewellery.”

Parker got to his feet. It was over. He could relax. Karns would be more sensible than Bronson. “So long, Quill. Be sure to give Karns the message.”

“Yes, I will. Goodbye, Mr Parker.”

7

PARKER SAT AT THE desk in the motel room writing letters. It was the Green Glen Motel, outside Scranton, and Handy was off having a drink and some of Madge’s reminiscence. Parker was copying from the first letter he’d done that afternoon. So far he had finished eight of them.

FRANK,

If you haven’t done anything about that first letter I sent you, never mind. I got everything straightened out now, so we can leave the Outfit alone again. I got in touch with the guy who ran the Outfit, and the one who’s taking over now has more sense. I talked with him, and we got everything squared away. If you already got the Boston job set up go ahead and do it, but you don’t have to on my account. You can always get in touch with me through Joe Sheer in Omaha. Maybe we’ll work together again some time.

PARKER

He was just starting on the ninth when the door opened. He looked up, expecting Handy or Madge, but it was Ethel, Madge’s helper, carrying sheets over her arm. “I’m supposed to change the linen now,” she said.

“Go ahead.”

She went over to the bed, and he got back to work on the letters. He did two more. Then she said, “Okay, it’s all changed now.”

“That’s good.”

“Looks nice,” she said.

He turned to look at her. She was a hefty girl, with big mounds for breasts and hips, and rumpled blonde hair framing a face that would have been good-looking if it weren’t so vapid.

“Yeah, very nice. That’s good.” He wondered if she waited around for a tip.

She said, “You want anything else before I go?”

“No,” he said. “That’s okay.”

She licked her lips and smiled, looking almost animated. “You sure?”

Then he caught on. And seriously considered it for a second or two, because the job was over and he was feeling the way he always felt right after a job. It would be a nice break from the letter-writing to toss this one once, a soft quickie on the clean sheets. But the blank cowlike face stopped him because he knew there was a blank bovine mind behind it. Tonight, maybe he’d go down into Scranton, though he’d never found much worth while in Scranton. If not, he could wait till tomorrow night. Bett Harrow could take care of things. He could save it till then. The first one after a job ought to be a good one, like Bett, not a pig from Scranton. “I’m sure,” he said. “Forget it.”

“If you say so,” she answered. The smile faded and she looked vague and sullen. She went out and closed the door after her.

Parker wrote letters a while longer, and then Handy came in. “Madge’ll take care of fencing the jewels for us,” he said. “She’ll hold on to the dough till the next time we come through. Where you headed next, Parker?”

“I got something waiting for me in Miami.”

“Another job?”

“I’m not sure.” He told Handy about Bett Harrow, and the gun that had struck Stern on the temple. “I don’t know what she wants. If it’s something easy, I’ll go along with it. Otherwise, the hell with her. It’s about time I started building a new cover anyway.”

“You want me to come along?”

“What about the diner in Presque Isle, Maine?”

Handy shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “The hell with my diner in Presque Isle, Maine!”

“Come on along, then,” Parker said.

THE PARKER SERIES:

Point Blank (1962) aka The Hunter

The Mourner (1963)

The Outfit (1963)

The Steel Hit (1963) aka The Man with the Getaway Face

The Score (1964) aka Killtown

The Black Ice Score (1965)

The Jugger (1965)

The Handle (1966) aka Run Lethal

The Seventh (1966) aka The Split

The Green Eagle Score (1967)

The Rare Coin Score (1967)

The Sour Lemon Score (1969)

Deadly Edge (1971)

Slayground (1971)

Plunder Squad (1972)

Butcher’s Moon (1974)

Comeback (1997)

Backflash (1998)

Payback (1999)

Flashfire (2000)

Firebreak (2001)

Breakout (2002)

Nobody Runs Forever (2004)

Ask the Parrot (2006)