The Outfit Page 4

  TWO

  The operator wanted ninety-five cents. Parker dropped the coins in; then the phone went dead for a while. A little rubber-bladed fan was whirring up near the top of the booth but not doing much good. Parker shoved the door open a little, and the fan stopped. He adjusted the door again until it was open a crack and the fan still worked. The phone started clicking with the sounds of falling relays, then stopped, and a repeated ringing took over.

  The phone was answered on the fourth ring by a male voice.

  Parker said, “I’m trying to get Arnie LaPointe.”

  “Speaking.”

  “This is Parker. I want you to give Handy McKay a message for me.”

  “I’m not sure I’ll see him.”

  “If you do.”

  “Sure, if I do.”

  “If he’s got nothing on, I’d like to meet him at Madge’s in Scranton next Thursday.”

  “Who should he ask for?”

  “Me. Parker.”

  “What time Thursday?”

  “Next Thursday. Not this Thursday.”

  “I got that. What time?”

  “Nine o’clock.”

  “Morning or night?”

  “For Christ’s sake. Night.”

  “If I see him, I’ll tell him.”

  “Thanks.”

  He hung up, and the coins clattered deeper into the box. He left the booth and went out of the drugstore. He was on the outskirts of Indianapolis, far enough away from the centre of the city for the drugstore to have a parking lot. The blue Olds was there, nosed against the stucco side of the building.

  Parker had had the Olds four days now, and it worked fine. He slid behind the wheel and pulled out of the lot. He was farther north now and, though the sun was bright, the air was cool. He headed east, through Speedway out to Clermont, and between Clermont and Brownsburg he turned off on a small road where a faded sign announced, “Tourist Accommodations”. The land was flat, but heavily forested, and he was practically on top of the house before he saw it. He pulled around to the side and parked.

  It was a big house painted white some years ago. Bay windows protruded from its sides with no pattern, like growths. The porch was broad with narrow rococo pillars. Four rocking chairs stood empty on the porch. A second-floor curtain flicked and was still.

  Parker got out of the Olds and walked around to the front and up on the porch. A small, bald man in white shin and grey pants with dark-blue suspenders appeared at the screen door and squinted out at him. He had a pair of wire-framed spectacles pushed up on his forehead, but he didn’t bother to lower them, just squinted.

  The plastic surgery Parker had had done seemed like a good idea at the time, but it made for complications. Nobody knew him any more. He stood outside the screen door and said, “I’m looking for a room.”

  “Sorry,” said the bald man. “We’re all full up right now.”

  Parker looked up. There was a light over the door in a complicated fixture supposed to look like a lantern. He said, “I see you got that fixed.”

  “I did what?”

  “The last time I was here,” Parker told him, “Eddie Hill got drunk and took off after that girl of his and shot that light all to hell. Remember?”

  Now the bald man did lower his glasses to his nose, and peered through them at Parker’s face. “I don’t remember you,” he said.

  “One tune when Skimm was here,” Parker said, “he buried a wad of dough out back some place. If you haven’t looked for it, you can now. He’s dead.”

  “You know who you sound like?”

  “Parker.”

  “Be damned if you don’t.”

  A new voice, from inside the house said, “Invite the gentleman in, Begley.”

  Begley pushed open the screen door. “Maybe you ought to come inside.”

  Parker went in and saw a man in the entrance to the parlour. He was holding a gun, but not aiming it anywhere in particular at the . moment.

  “Hi, Jacko,” said Parker.

  Jacko was chewing gum. He said. “You got the advantage on me, friend. I don’t seem to recollect your name.”

  “Parker.”

  “Crap.”

  Begley had been leaning close, squinting up at Parker’s face, and he now said, “No, now — wait a minute, Jacko. I be damned if it ain’t Parker! He’s had one of them face jobs, that’s all.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Jacko frowned, chewing his gum. “Okay, who worked that Fort Wayne payroll job with you, back in ‘49?”

  “You did.”

  “Sure. Just the two of us?”

  “Bobby Gonzales drove. Joe Sheer worked the safe. The inside man was named Fahey or something like that. He tried to run out with the boodle and you took him up to Lake Michigan and threw him in.”

  “Where’d we hide out after the job?”

  “In a trailer camp outside Goshen. It isn’t there any more.” Parker turned to Begley. “Let’s go sit down. I want to talk. You too, Jacko.”

  “I’m not satisfied yet,” said Jacko.

  “Then go to hell!”

  Jack laughed. “Maybe you’re Ronald Reagan with the FBI. How do I know?”

  “You’re scared of guns, Jacko, so you got no cartridge under the hammer. You’ll have to pull that trigger twice before you get any action, and I can move faster than that. Put it away, or I’ll take it away from you.”

  Begley laughed then, and said, “Nobody but Parker can irritate people so quick.”

  Jacko put the pistol inside his jacket, looking angry. “One of these days, Parker,” he said, “I’ve got to check you out. Nobody’s as mean as you talk.”

  “Maybe not.” Parker went on past him into the parlour, where there was a sofa and three rocking chairs. He picked one of them, sat down, and said, “I want to talk anyway.”

  The other two came in and sat down. Begley said, “You want a room now?”

  “No. Two weeks from now.”

  “You got something lined up?” Jacko asked him. “You want a hand, maybe?”

  “No. I want to tell you a story.” He told them quickly about his trouble with the syndicate. Jacko sat impassive, chewing his gum. Begley listened, fascinated, blinking behind his spectacles.

  “So I’m going to settle this thing with the Outfit once and for all,” Parker finished. “That’s why I’ll need a room in a couple weeks.”

  “Why tell me?” asked Jacko.

  “It’s a chance for you. It’s a chance for all the boys. The Outfit is full of cash, all untraceable, and they can’t call in the law if they get taken. We’ve always left them alone, and they’ve always left us alone. Now they’re making trouble for me. If you hit diem, they’ll blame me.” He turned to Begley. “I want you to spread the word, anybody else drops in. Now’s the time to hit die syndicate.”

  “For you?” demanded Jacko. “Why should I do anything for you, Parker?”

  “Not for me. I don’t want a cut or anything else. I’m just spreading the word. You know of any syndicate operation that would be an easy take?”

  Jacko laughed. “Haifa dozen,” he said. “They pay the law and they figure dial’s all they got to do.”

  “So here’s your chance, that’s all.”

  “But it helps you, too, Parker.”

  “So what?”

  Jacko shrugged. “I’ll think it over.”

  Begley said, “I’ll spread the word, Parker. You can count on me.”

  “Good.”

  “They should have paid you in the first place the way Branson promised. It was your money.”

  Jacko said, “Maybe they didn’t figure it that way.”

  “They figured it wrong,” said Parker. He got to his feet. To Begley, he said, “I’ll see you in a couple weeks.”

  “Okay.” Begley walked him to the door. “Couple more boys you know upstairs. Want to say hello?”

  “No time. Spread the word on the new face, too, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  Parker wen
t back out to the Olds. Begley stood on the porch staring after him as he drove away. He drove back to the highway and headed north again, crossing into Illinois, getting as far as Kankakee before stopping at a motel for the night. He wrote half a dozen more letters that night. This had been his routine all the way up from Georgia. Stop off to see one or two people every day along his route, and, at night, write letters to the men too far off the route for him to visit. He’d written about thirty letters so far, and seen seven people. If only a third of them took the chance he was suggesting, it would be enough. The Outfit would start to hurt.

  THREE

  There was a large poster frame beside the entrance. In it, a faggot with black wavy hair smiled above his bow tie. His eyes were made up like Theda Bara’s. Under the bow tie it said: ronnie randall & his piano — every NITE! Over the entrance, small spots shone on huge silver letters against a black background: THE three kings. Pasted to the glass of the left-hand entrance door was the notice: No cover, no minimum—except weekends. Covering the glass of the other door was a poster: sally & the swingers — every fri. sat. sun! The building behind all this information was low and squat, made of concrete blocks painted a pale blue. Porthole windows marched away to the right of the entrance across the front of the building, showing amber bar lights deep inside, making it look like midnight in an aquarium. Parker drove by twice, very slowly, and then parked half a block away in the darkness of a side street.

  This part of Brooklyn was a tight gridwork of two-storey row houses with Kings Highway gouging a broad black top diagonal down through it. The highway was flanked with diners, bars, small warehouses, and used-car lots. At the corner where The Three Kings stood, two right-angled grid streets intersected, with Kings Highway cutting through the intersection at a forty-five degree angle, leaving a big open space of blacktop in the centre which was fed from six directions and capped by a swaying traffic light. The street lights were all too far away to light the middle, which was open, bare, and black.

  Eleven o’clock. Tuesday night. Darkness surrounded the intersection everywhere except for the pool of light in front of The Three Kings. Up and down Kings Highway were far glimpses of other neon oases, but the grid tree-lined streets were all shut up and dark.

  Parker left the Olds in a slot with plenty of room in front, so he could take off without backing and filling, and walked to the intersection. November was ending, and Brooklyn was cold with the wet bronchial cold of the harbour. Parker’s breath misted around him as he walked. He was wearing a topcoat, but no hat, and he walked with his hands jammed deep into his pockets. In one of his suit pockets was the gun he’d picked up the day before in Wilmington, a short-barrelled S & W .38 Special.

  He was now ten days from Florida. Forty-seven letters had been written; twelve men had been talked to personally. Four of the twelve had said they’d been looking for an excuse like this to hit the syndicate for years. Five more had said they’d think it over, and three had copped out for one reason or another. Say a third would move out of the fifty-nine — twenty jobs! Within a month, or less, the Outfit would be hit twenty times, maybe more, all over the country.

  Starting tonight.

  Light washed down on Parker as he pushed open the door and went into the club. Inside, amber light feebly silhouetted the furnishings and customers. Two bartenders were blobs of white behind the dark wooden bar, but tonight one of them was unnecessary. Four women and three men were spaced along the bar, and the booths on the other side of the room were all empty. In back, twenty tables or so were arranged in a semicircle around a small platform, and on the platform Ronnie Randall, twenty years older than his picture and very tired, doodled at the piano. Three of the tables back were occupied, served by a sour waitress in black dress and white apron.

  Two of the women at the bar turned to look at Parker, but he ignored them and walked farther down where a batch of stools were empty. He didn’t sit down, but stood leaning against the bar. One of the bartenders came down and asked him what he’d have.

  “Menner of Miami Beach sent me up to see Jim,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Jim St Clair.”

  “No, no, the other one.”

  “Menner.”

  The bartender shook his head. He was a burly man gone to fat.

  He said, “I don’t know that name.”

  Parker shrugged.

  The bartender studied him a minute and then said, “I’ll see. What’ll you have?”

  “Budweiser.”

  “Check.” He turned and called to the other barkeep, “Bud, here. I’ll be right back.”

  He walked away, with the busy walk of a bartender — bent forward slightly and working his arms as though he were shoving a beer keg along in front of nun. His apron hung almost to his ankles, and it whipped around his feet as he walked. He went down to the end of the bar, raised the flap, went through, and turned right through a door next to the door marked “Pointers”. Farther back, there was a door marked “Setters”. Both doors had metal dog silhouettes nailed on them.

  The other bartender strolled down with the bottle and glass, took Parker’s dollar, and brought back a fifty-cent piece. Parker put the coin in his pocket and drank some beer.

  The first bartender came back after a while, leaned on the bar in front of Parker, and said, “.Okay. Right through there where I went.”

  “Good.”

  Parker walked back, pushed open the door, and found himself in a short bright hallway with plaster cream-coloured walls. At the end, where the hall made an L to the left, there was a door facing him marked “Office”. He walked over to it, looked to the left, and saw a gleaming kitchen with an undershirted Negro sweating at the clipper. Parker pushed open the office door and went in.

  It was a small, cramped room with grey walls. A deck was shoved against one wall, a filing cabinet against another, and there was a water cooler in the corner, leaving a small circle of black linoleum floor space free in the middle of the room. A short, fat, red-faced man looked up from the desk on which there was open ledgers, and asked, “Well? Hah?” He waved his hands, both covered with ink.

  “Menner sent me to see you,” Parker told him. He started to close the door, but the bartender had come along behind him and was standing there.

  The red-faced man was saying, “Menner? Hah? Menner? Menner’s dead?”

  Parker nodded. “I know. But Cresetti said you didn’t know him, so I should use Menner’s name.”

  “Cresetti? Hah? Who?”

  “He took over from Menner.”

  “And he sent you up here? Why? What the hell do I have to do with this Cresetti? What’s this Cresetti to me?”

  “You sent Menner that guy Stern,” Parker reminded him. The bartender was just standing there behind him, leaning against the doorframe.

  “Sure, Stern,” said the red-faced man. “Sure, I sent him. He screwed up, huh? That bastard Parker killed him — how do you like that?”

  Parker shrugged. “He killed Menner, too.” He wasn’t paying attention, he was trying to decide what to do about the bartender.

  “Sure, he killed Menner. They tell me maybe he’ll come here.” The red-faced man squinted at him. “You think so? Nah, I don’t think so. What’s he got against me? Menner fingered him, yeah, and Stern tried to knock him off, yeah, but what did I do to the bastard? Nothing. I’m told send a gun to this Menner in Florida. I do it. I don’t know what this gun is supposed to do, I don’t have nothing to do with nothing. So I figure this bastard won’t bother with me. He’ll ignore me, right?”

  “Maybe,” said Parker.

  “Maybe you’re him,” said the red-faced man. “Hah! That’s a hot one, huh? Maybe you’re him! Maybe I oughta have Johnny frisk you.”

  “I’ve got a gun on me.”

  The man grinned and ducked his head, multiplying his chins. He was full of fun. “Heeled? Hah?”

  “Stern’s gun,” Parker told him. “I’m bringing it back. A .25 with a silencer
. Johnny can reach in my right-hand pocket and he’ll find it there.” Parker waited for Johnny to come up behind him, close enough.

  But the red-faced man waved his hands. “Nah, why? We enemies? We animals in a jungle? Just take off the coat, that’s all. It’s hot in here, who needs a coat? Gimme — I’ll hang it up.”

  Parker shrugged. He took off his coat, handed it towards St Clair, and dropped it on the floor just before St Clair got it. Grunting, St Clair automatically stooped for it, and Parker kicked him in the face. His hand went inside his suit jacket as he turned, and when it came out it had the stubby .38 in it. Johnny was one step into the room, but he stopped when he saw the gun.

  “Back to the door, Johnny,” Parker told him. “Lean against the wall like before. Fold your arms. That’s a good boy, Johnny.”

  Johnny stood there the way he was told. His face was expressionless. St Clair was lying on the floor. Parker tugged on a drawer of the filing cabinet and found it locked. He’d been a little worried when he’d seen no safe in the room, but now he felt better. St Clair kept his cash in a locked filing-cabinet. He felt real sure of himself, St Clair.

  Parker went down on one knee, watching Johnny, and went through St Clair’s pockets till he found a key ring. It would be easier to bring Johnny into the room, put him to sleep, and shut the door, but it might not be smart. The Negro in the kitchen might be primed — he might know that everything was all right only so long as Johnny was standing in the doorway. Parker, when he was working, liked to leave things as they were as much as possible.

  Left-handed, he unlocked the filing cabinet, and then started opening and shutting drawers. In the bottom drawer, was a green metal box. Parker lifted it out. It was heavy. He put it on the desk and found the key on the ring which opened it. Rolls of coins lined the top tray. He put the tray aside; he had no use for coins. The bottom of the box was full of stached bills. Parker removed St Clair’s wallet from his jacket pocket and dropped it in the box. He looked at Johnny again. “Yours, too.”