The Steel Hit p-2 Read online

  Handy nodded. “I’ve been thinking about that.”

  Then they went out to a nearby bar and drank some beer. After a while they split, and Parker went back to the motel. He was in bed by one o’clock.

  Chapter 2

  PARKER slowed as he neared the toll booths, and fumbled in his pocket for change. The toll booth structure was pale stucco with a green California Mission roof. It should have been on a road in Italy or Spain, rather than at the eastern end of the bridge from Perth Amboy to Staten Island.

  The fare was fifty cents. Parker handed over two quarters, and went three-quarters of the way around the circle, then straight for about a hundred yards on cracked concrete, and took a right turn. This was 440, headed towards St George, where the ferries docked.

  The road was four lanes wide, made of concrete, with a centre mall. But it looked abandoned. Old breaks had been lumpily covered with blacktop, and the more recent breaks had been ignored. Bushes and weeds grew wild on the mall, and the land to either side of the road was scrub.

  “This is the way she’ll come,” he said to Handy. “After the job, she’ll take the dirt road back of the diner, just the way she says. But she’ll turn right instead of left, and come up just the way we did, up 9 and over 440 to the Outerbridge Crossing. She can take it easy along here, she’s out of New Jersey.”

  Handy twisted around in the seat and looked behind them. “We’re the only ones on the road.”

  “This route doesn’t get much play. On a Monday, around noon, we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

  “You’re sure this is the way she’ll come?”

  “She’s got to. It’s the most direct way.”

  “What about those other two roads? Back there by the bridge, at the circle?”

  Parker shrugged. “They don’t go anywhere. This is the way to the ferry. There’s what I want, up there.”

  He hit the brake, and the Ford slowed. At an angle off to the right was a cross street, or the beginning of a cross street. When this road was built, the curbs were put down with provisions for cross streets in the future, when Staten Island would be as big as Brooklyn.

  The curb curved back on either side, and concrete started off to the right, going into the scrub about ten feet and stopping. Beyond was a gravel road for about a hundred feet, and beyond that a dirt road that curved back towards the main road but didn’t come all the way. From 440, though, all you could see was the concrete starting out and then the gravel going off into the bushes.

  Parker slowed the car, turned the wheel a little, and stopped just at the edge of the gravel. “Right here,” he said. “The way I told you. We cut her off into this thing, take the dough, and go on to the ferry. Monday, around noon, we’ll have ten or fifteen minutes before another car shows up. Besides, we’re already in New York State.”

  They got out of the car. Handy tramped back and forth on the concrete, looking the situation over. He peered down at the gravel part, and stood there a minute, poking at his teeth with a wooden match. Then he shook his head and turned back.

  “You know what bothers me?”

  “What?”

  “Skimm.” Handy left the match in his mouth while he dug out a cigarette, talking around the match. “If he’s on the outside and she figures to cross him, too, okay, then it’ll work out like you say. But if she’s sweet-talked him over, I don’t like it. Skimm’s no dummy. He’ll try to think the way we think, and he’ll come up with the idea they should stay away from Staten Island.”

  “Do you think he’s in?”

  Handy took time to light the cigarette and throw the match away. “I don’t know. I’ve known Skimm twelve years. I’ve worked with him four, five times. I always figured Skimm was a little guy who didn’t have much brains but you could trust him, m you know what I mean?”

  Parker nodded. “You think Alma wants him? After the job, I mean?”

  “It doesn’t figure.”

  “All she wants,” said Parker, “is the money. Not half of it, all of it. She won’t even try to sweet-talk Skimm.”

  “That’s the way it plays,” Handy answered. He looked around, at the empty road, and the gravel road that went nowhere. “We’re taking a big chance on how it plays.”

  “She takes it out of Jersey for us, then we take it away from her. If the law stops her, that’s one thing. If it doesn’t, she’ll come this way.”

  “It does figure,” said Handy. His cigarette was all wet, where he’d lipped it. He stuck it back in his mouth. “All right, this is the way we do it.”

  “Right.”

  A pale blue Ford went by, headed towards the bridge to New Jersey. It was the first moving car they’d seen on Staten Island. They watched it go by, and then Parker said, “I got to get back. I got to walk Stubbs.”

  “You talk about him like he was your dog.”

  “He’s a pain in the ass,” Parker said.

  They got into the car, made a U-turn at a break in the mall, and headed back to New Jersey.

  Chapter 3

  AFTER BREAKFAST, Parker stopped at an outdoor phone booth next to a gas station. The Saturday morning traffic streaming by on 9 headed south for the shore. Parker dialled Skimm’s number, and waited seven rings till there was a click and Skimm’s voice said, “What?”

  “It’s ten o’clock,” Parker said. Since Skimm had a woman, he’d been sleeping.

  “What’s that? Parker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Listen, that guy called, that Lawson. He wants you to call him at his office, he’ll be there till noon.”

  “All right. Walk Stubbs for me this afternoon, will you?”

  “I was goin’ to the shore with Alma.” When Parker didn’t say anything, Skimm said, “All right, I’ll do it. That guy gives me a pain.”

  “I know,” Parker said. “Hang around there while I talk to Lawson.”

  “Yeah, sure. I’ll make some coffee. Alma’s gone to work. She’s gonna be mad when we can’t go to the shore today.”

  “Yeah.” Parker hung up, disgusted, and dropped another dime in the slot. He called Lawson’s office, and an operator had him put in another fifteen. When he told the secretary it was Mr Flynn to talk to Mr Lawson she put him right through.

  “I’ve got some of your goods, Mr Flynn. Those three cases you wanted, in good condition, and one truck.”

  “Good,” Parker said.

  “The only thing is the truck right now is in North Carolina. It’s the one I told you about. It needs some work on it, but it’ll run. They’ll take eight hundred for delivery right there in North Carolina, no extra.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Nine years.”

  Parker grimaced. “Will it make it up here?”

  “According to what I’ve been told,” Lawson said carefully, “it should make the trip, yes.”

  “All right. Where is it?”

  “Goldsboro. I believe that’s not too far from Raleigh.”

  “I’ll find it. Who’s the party?”

  “The Double Ace Garage.”

  “All right.”

  “About the other matter, the three cases–-“

  “I’ll pick them up Tuesday.”

  “Well,” said Lawson, “I don’t have them, but I can put you in touch with the man who does.”

  “Tell him Tuesday.”

  “I don’t think he’ll like that, Mr Flynn. They’re what you might call a perishable commodity. He doesn’t like to keep them in the store too long, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tuesday’s the earliest I can make it.”

  “Well, I tell you what. I’ll give you his name and phone number. You can straighten it out with him.”

  “You straighten it out,” Parker said. “I’ll call you Tuesday.”

  He hung up and left the phone booth and joined the rest of the traffic on 9. Handy was sitting in Alma’s green Dodge in the furniture store parking lot, across the road from the diner. Parker turned the Ford in next to him, and Handy c
ame over, sliding in next to Parker in the Ford. He had a pencil and a notebook with him.

  “What’s the good word?” he said.

  “I got to go to North Carolina to pick up a truck. I’ll try to be back Monday. Walk Stubbs for me tomorrow, will you?”

  “Sure. Skimm taking it today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He’s supposed to take over here for me tomorrow morning.”

  “I know.”

  — There he goes!” He pointed the pencil at the road. “See him? The light green Merc with the white top. He’s either law or on a case.”

  Parker squinted at the Mercury as it faded away down the road, southward. “Law, I guess. Shows up when the traffic’s heavy?”

  “Right. The same two guys in it every time.” Handy made a mark in the notebook. “I don’t think he’ll be working Monday, but just the same.” He looked out at the road again. “What kind of truck you got?”

  “I don’t know. A bomb, I think.”

  “Just so it’s big.”

  “You can use the Ford while I’m gone. I’ll leave it with Skimm.”

  Handy nodded. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  “If the truck doesn’t break down.” If you don’t show, I’ll take care of Stubbs.” Right.”

  Handy went back to his own car and Parker drove north into Irvington and stopped at Skimm’s house. Skimm was dressed but he hadn’t shaved. His beard grew in straggly and grey, making him look more like a wino on the bum. “Come on in, I’m making coffee,” he said.

  Skimm went back to the kitchen and Parker called Newark Airport. He could get a plane at two-fifty, change over in Washington and go from there to Raleigh. After that he’d take a bus to Goldsboro. He made the reservation, and then went out to the kitchen.

  Skimm was standing by the stove, watching a battered tin coffee pot. He’d spent so much of his life jungled up he didn’t know how to make coffee any other way but in an old beat-up pot. There were two heavy china mugs on the table, and steel spoons, but no saucers. A pint of Old Mr Boston stood next to one mug.

  “Sit down,” Skimm said, “she’s almost ready.”

  Parker sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “You got an ashtray?”

  “Yeah, wait a second.” Skimm looked around and then what kind of truck you brought a saucer over to the table. “Here you are.”

  “Thanks.” Parker dropped the match on to the saucer.

  Skimm went back over to the stove and watched the coffee pot some more. Over his shoulder, he said, “Things comin’ along, huh?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I guess you were right, Parker. We only needed three men. Even with that Stubbs to louse things up.”

  “You want to watch him this afternoon. Yesterday, he started to throw a two-by-four at me.”

  Skimm bobbed his head and grinned. “Getting stir-crazy, huh?”

  “Just another week,” Parker said. He shrugged. “I’m going south today, be back Monday. Picking up a truck. Come out to the airport with me and take the car. Use it when you go walk Stubbs and then let Handy have it.”

  “Okay.” Skimm turned the fire off under the coffee pot and poured them two cups of coffee. He set out milk and sugar for Parker, and poured a belt of Old Mr Boston in with his coffee. Then he sat down. “You got a truck, huh?”

  Parker nodded.

  “A good one?”

  “How do I know till I see it?”

  “That’s right, ain’t it?” Skimm sipped at his coffee, and made a face. “You say it’s down south?”

  “North Carolina.”

  “North Carolina,” repeated Skimm. “And you going to fly down, huh?”

  “Shut up a while,” Parker said.

  Skimm blink rapidly for a few seconds, and then looked down at his coffee cup. He took another sip, and made a face again. Then he coughed, and looked slant-eyed at Parker. Parker just sat there, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee, waiting for it to be time to go to the airport.

  After a while, Skimm coughed again. “You getting nervous about it, Parker?”

  Parker focused on him slowly. He’d been miles away. “Nervous about what?”

  “You know. The job.”

  “No.”

  “I thought — you acted jumpy.”

  “Irritated,” Parker answered. “The job isn’t clean, there’s too much to watch.” v “You mean Stubbs?”

  Parker shrugged.

  “Listen,” Skimm said. “I know you don’t like Alma. She’s kind of bitchy sometimes, I know that. But she’s okay, Parker, she really is. You got to get to know her. I wish you’d try to get to know her.”

  Parker looked at him, his mouth dragging down at the corners. “You offering her to me?”

  Skimm got confused then, and looked at his coffee cup. “No, no, I didn’t mean that, nothing like that. I only meant–-” He ran down, not sure how to explain himself.

  “Sure,” said Parker. He finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Let’s go out to the airport.”

  “What time’s your plane?”

  “Two-fifty.”

  “We got time, then.”

  “I want to go now.”

  “Sure. Okay.” Skimm stood up and finished his coffee, gulping it down. He started to put the pint in his pocket, but Parker said, “Leave it. You’re going to be driving.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  They went out to the car, and Parker drove to the airport. When he got out of the car, he said, “You let Stubbs get away, I’ll stomp you!”

  “Don’t you worry,” said Skimm. “He won’t go nowhere.”

  Parker walked away into the terminal.

  Chapter 4

  GOLDSBORO is small and pinch-faced, a backwater town on the Neuse River, surrounded by tobacco fields. There’s an air base nearby, and the State Hospital for Negro Insane. These, and cotton and fertilizer, are what the town lives on.

  Parker got off the bus a little after ten, Saturday night. The workers and the airmen filled the streets. He pushed through and went into a diner where he got directions to the Double Ace Garage. It was too far to walk, so he went back to the tiny bus depot and took the only cab, an old black Chevrolet.

  The Double Ace Garage was a long, low, shed-like construction of concrete blocks. It was painted a dirty white, with the name in red lettering over the wide doors at the front. Parker went inside to the office cubicle, stuck in the right-hand corner up front, and found a hairy florid stout man sitting in a swivel chair at a rolltop desk. He was smoking a cigar, and he left it in his mouth when he talked.

  “I’m Flynn. Lawson sent me.”

  “Yah,” said the florid man. He turned slightly, and the swivel chair squeaked drily. “He phoned.”

  “Let’s see it,” Parker said.

  “Yah. You’re in a hurry, huh?”

  Parker waited.

  The florid man grunted and heaved himself out of the chair. They went around to the side of the building, where there was a gravel lot. The truck was standing there, a nine-year-old Dodge cab and a Fruehauf trailer, lit by a floodlight on the side of the building. The trailer was metal colour and covered with grime, and the cab red. Some company name on the doors had been M painted out with a darker red. The engine was running.

  Parker shook his head. He went over and opened the door on the driver’s side and reached up and turned the ignition key. The engine stopped. The florid man watched him, chewing slowly on his cigar, but Parker ignored him. He looked at the rubber all the way around. It was all lousy but at least there were no threads showing.

  The mudguards were gone, and so were most of the safety lights. The window was broken in the right-hand door, and there was some sort of jury-rigged rope arrangement keeping cab and trailer together because the original hitch was broken. The floor mats were gone in the cab, showing where part of the metal flooring had rusted through.

  Parker opened the trailer doors and saw that most of the wooden inner walls had been ripped out. He s
hook his head again and went around front to open the left side of the hood. The engine was a greasy mess, the wiring frayed, the radiator hoses cracked. The dip stick was gone, and so was the breather.

  Parker closed the hood again, got down, and wiped his hands on the fender. Then he crawled under the cab. There was a large oil stain on the ground, and the lube points were practically covered by caked-on dirt.

  He came out from under the cab. “She’s a mess.”

  The florid man grinned around his cigar, and spread his hands. “For the price?” he said. “Come on back to the office.”

  Parker went with him back to the office. The florid man started to say, “I know she don’t look–-” when Parker turned around and went back out again. The florid man looked startled. “Hey! Where you goin’?”

  Parker went around to the side of the building again. A kid in a greasy coverall had the hood open. There was a battery on the ground beside the cab, and he was getting set to attach the jumper cables.

  The florid man came heavily around the corner. “Now, listen here, buddy.”

  Parker turned to him. “I want a new battery,” he said. “And new plugs. And fresh oil. And a lube. And enough lights on the box so I don’t get stopped by state troopers.”

  The florid man was shaking his head, chewing more rapidly on the cigar. “That wasn’t the deal. As is, that was the deal, as is.”

  “No deal,” Parker said. He walked around the florid man and started towards the street.

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  Parker turned.

  The florid man tried a smile that didn’t come off. “No sense goin’ off in a huff, buddy,” he said. “We can work somethin’ out. It might maybe cost you a little more, but just for the parts, not for the labour. I wouldn’t charge you for the labour.”

  “Do like I said with it,” Parker answered, “and new radiator hoses, and I’ll take it for seven.”

  “Seven! The deal was eight.”