The Outfit: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels) Read online

  “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 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 liked him.

  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 that 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 one-way 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 some-body in Buffalo, then we could of just by-passed this town.”

  “It'd be the same in Buffalo.”

  “Yeah, but we'd be there.”

  “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 Parking signs. 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 license 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 short, 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 licensed, 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 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 of 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 license, 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 ha
ndle 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 no to 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 mid-point 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 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 toward 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 then they'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 jewelers 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 talked 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 into 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 at 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 engine. “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 toward 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 toward 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 Isl
e, 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 hideout. A big pile of stones, set back from the street, the grounds surrounded by high hedges. Neighbors 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 meetinghouse. 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.