The Outfit: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels) Page 5

  “They should of paid you in the first place the way Bronson 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 went 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.

  3

  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 hege 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-story 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 black-top in the center 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 harbor. 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-barreled 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 semi-circle around a small platform, and on the platform Ronnie Randall, twenty years older than his picture and very tired, noodled at the piano. Three of the tables back there 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 him. 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 awhile, 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-colored 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 gray walls. A desk 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 were 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 m
e. 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 toward 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 stacked bills. Parker removed St. Clair's wallet from his jacket pocket and dropped it in the box. He looked at Johnny again. “Yours, too.”

  Johnny moved very slowly, reaching around under the apron to his hip pocket and coming up with a worn brown leather wallet. Parker said, “Toss it on the desk.”

  “I got a lot of papers in there,” Johnny told him. “Driver's license and stuff.”

  “Good,” said Parker. It would go with the papers from the poker players in Miami. Legitimate papers were always useful. He dropped the wallet in the box and closed the top. Then he switched the gun to his left hand, picked up the box in his right, and swung it against St. Clair's head. It made a dull echoing sound. When St. Clair woke up, he'd be in a hospital.

  Parker put the box down, got into his topcoat, and picked the box up again. “Now,” he said, “we're going outside. We'll go through the kitchen and out the back way, and you won't say anything to that boy working back there, not even hello. You got me?”

  “Not yet, but I will.”

  “Don't be brave, Johnny, you just work here. Let's go.”

  Johnny led the way, and Parker followed, cradling the metal box. They went out to the hallway and turned right to go through the kitchen. The Negro was still sweating at the clipper, shoving dirty dishes in at one end and pulling clean dishes out at the other. The clipper made a lot of noise and he didn't even notice them going through. The kitchen was steamy from the clipper, which made the outside air seem even colder and damper than before.

  After they went out, Parker closed the door. It was pitch-black, and it took Parker a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Then he saw and heard Johnny making a run for it to the left. He smiled thinly and followed. They both went around the building, Johnny crashing and blundering ahead, Parker moving silently in his wake. Then Johnny burst out to the brightly-lit sidewalk and ducked to the left around the corner of the building toward the entrance. Parker made it to the sidewalk and walked the other way. In three steps he was in darkness, and then he was around the corner. He got into the Olds, put the metal box on the seat beside him, and drove away.

  4

  In spidery Gothic script, the name plate on the ivory door read:

  Justin

  Fairfax

  Parker looked at the name, then touched his finger to the button beside the door. The apartment within was sound-proofed. Standing in the muted hall, Parker couldn't hear the bell or chimes or whatever sound the button produced. Probably chimes. He waited, looking at the name plate on the door.

  Justin Fairfax. He hadn't moved. That was stupid, it really was. He should have moved.

  Parker had been here once before, while trying to get his money back from the syndicate. Justin Fairfax was one of the two men in charge of the New York area of the Outfit's operations.

  The door opened. A heavy-set, distrustful man stood there, his right hand near his jacket lapel. He asked quietly, “What is it?”

  Beyond him, Parker could see the elegant living room with its white broadloom carpet, white leather sofa, and free-form glass coffee table. The twin brothers of the heavy-set man lounged there, looking out of place, like burglars resting in the middle of a heist.

  “I've got the message for Mr. Fairfax. From Jim St. Clair,” Parker said.

  “What's the message?”

  “I'm supposed to deliver it to him personally.”

  “Tough. What's the message?”

  Parker shrugged. “I'll go tell Mr. St. Clair you wouldn't let me in,” he said. He turned away and headed for the elevator.

  “Hold on.”

  Parker looked back.

  “All right. You wait there, I'll see what Mr. Fairfax has to say.”

  “I'll wait inside. I don't want to hang around the hallway.”

  The heavy-set man made an angry face. “All right,” he said, “get in here.”

  Parker went in, and the heavy-set man closed the door after him. They stepped down into the living room, and the man warned, “Watch this bird!” Then he crossed the room and went through another door which led deeper into the apartment.

  The twin brothers watched him. Parker stood with his hand in his pockets, his right hand on the .38. His topcoat was unbuttoned, so he could aim the gun in any direction from within the pocket.

  The heavy-set man came back, followed by Fairfax. Fairfax was tall and stately, graying at the temples, with a smartly clipped pepper-and-salt moustache. He was about fifty-five, and had obviously spent a lot of time in gymnasiums. He was wearing a silk Japanese robe and wicker sandals. He looked at Parker and frowned. “Do I know you?”

  The new face came in handy sometimes. Parker said, “I work for Mr. St. Clair. You might of seen me around with him.”

  “Mmmmm.” Fairfax touched his moustache with the tips of his fingers. “Well, what's the message?”

  Parker glanced meaningfully at the bodyguards. “Mr. St. Clair said I should keep it private.”

  “You can speak in front of these men.”

  “Well—it has to do with Parker.”

  Fairfax smiled thinly. “Parker is the reason these men are here,” he said. “What about him?”

  “He knocked over The Three Kings tonight.”

  “He what?”

  “He beat up Mr. St. Clair and the bartender. He walked off with thirty-four hundred dollars.”

  “So he's in New York.” Fairfax mused, stroking his moustache.

  “He told Mr. St. Clair he was coming to see you next.”

  “He did, eh?” Fairfax glanced around at his three body-guards. He smiled again, with scornful amusement. “I think we're ready for him if he does come,” he said. “Don't you?”
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  “No.”

  Parker fired through his pocket, and the heavy-set man who had let him in staggered back one step and fell over a table, scattering magazines to the floor. The twin brothers jumped to their feet, but Parker pulled the gun from his pocket and they stopped, frozen in midgesture. Fairfax backed up until his shoulders brushed the far wall; his face was pale and haggard, and his fingers now covered his moustache completely.

  Parker ordered the twins, “Pick him up. Fairfax, lead the way. Same bedroom as last time.” The last time he had been here, there'd been bodyguards, too. They'd been locked in a bedroom while Parker said what he had to say.

  The twins went over to the man on the floor. One of them looked up, saying, “He isn't dead.”