Parker 01 - The Hunter (14 page)

He said it aloud. "Forty-five thousand dollars, Mal, that's what you owe me."

Mal tried to speak, but it came out a croak. His voice wasn't working yet; the bad color hadn't completely faded from his face.

Parker looked at the woman. "Get out of here," he said. "Get dressed and get out of here."

She jumped up from the bed, clumsy with terror, and if she was normally a beautiful and graceful woman it was impossible to tell it now.

"Mal," said Parker. "Do you want her to call the police?"

"No," croaked Mal.

"Do you want her to call the Outfit?"

"No."

Parker nodded, and turned to the woman, who was bent awkwardly, stepping into her panties, cumbersome in her haste. "Listen, you," he said. "Listen to what Mal has to say."

She stopped, staring at them, and Mal croaked, "Don't talk to nobody, don't tell nobody about this. The envelope's in the living room. Take it -- go home -- don't say nothing to nobody."

"That's good," Parker said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and they waited until the woman had left. Then Parker got to his feet again. "You owe me forty-five thousand dollars, Mal."

Mal thought now that maybe he wouldn't be killed after all. Maybe Parker didn't want to kill him, just to get half of the money. He struggled up from the floor, still shaky, and said, "I don't have it right now, Parker, I -- "

"What did you do with it?"

"I had to pay the Outfit eighty thousand dollars. I gave it all to them."

That would do it. That would be enough. To go to the syndicate -- the Outfit, whatever they wanted to call it -- to go to them and get his money back. He needed that much -- he needed to act, to force, to push. Mal wasn't enough, he was easy, he was too easy, he was the easiest thing that ever happened.

"All right," said Parker. "It's the same Outfit here as Chicago, right?"

Mal nodded, puzzled. "Sure. Coast to coast, Parker, it's all the same."

"Who runs it here? Here in New York, who's the boss?"

"What do you want, Parker? You can't -- "

"Do you want to die, Mal?"

"What? No! For Christ's sake, Parker -- "

They stood facing each other. Parker held out his hands where Mal could see them, curved, ready to fit around Mal's neck. "Who's the boss in New York, Mal?"

"They'll kill me, Parker, they'll -- "

"Not if you're already dead." Parker rested his hands on Mal's neck, just easy, not squeezing yet. His arms were straight out, and this way he was unprotected should Mal decide to kick him in the groin or punch him in the stomach, but he knew Mal wouldn't try anything like that. He didn't have anything to worry about from Mal. Mal was easy.

Mal's lip quivered, and then he said, "There's two of them, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter. They run things in New York, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter."

"And where do I find them, Mal?"

"Mr. Fairfax isn't in town right now." Mal's tongue came out, moistening his lips, and his eyes flickered to the corner where Parker had thrown the gun.

"Parker," he said, pleading, "we can work something -- "

"Where do I find Carter?"

"Please, Parker, it won't do you any good. You couldn't get in to see him anyway, and we can work -- "

Parkers hands tensed and relaxed on Mal's neck. "Where do I find Carter?"

Mal hesitated, flickered his eyes, gestured with his hands, shifted his weight back and forth from leg to leg, and capitulated. "582 Fifth Avenue," he said. He closed his eyes, as though then it wouldn't really be him telling. "He's got an office there, Frederick Carter Investments. Seventh floor, I forget the num-ber."

Parker let his hands fall away from Mal's neck. "Fine," he said. "That's fine."

Mal wanted to plead again, started to say something again about how they could work something out, but Parker stopped him. "Tell me about the office. You say I couldn't get in. Why not?"

Mal told him about the layout of the office, the silent man who came out, and what the silent man said when it was someone Mr. Carter didn't want to see.

Parker nodded, listening, and said. "You been there recently, huh, Mal? When you heard I was after you?" He looked around the room. "They threw you away, huh? They wouldn't help you?"

"They said it was up to me. Mr. Carter said so."

Parker laughed at him. "They should have known better, huh, Mal?"

Then he took Mal's neck in his hands again, and this time he didn't let go till Mal stopped breathing.

The silent man pulled open the unmarked door and looked out at Parker. He hesitated and then said, "Can I help you?" He sounded puzzled. He didn't recognize Parker as an Outfit man, but he didn't look like an investment customer either.

Parker said, "Tell your boss the guy who killed Mal Resnick is here."

The puzzlement on the silent man's face shifted subtly from real to fake. He said, "I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't have to," Parker said.

He turned his back and walked over to one of the sofas. Sitting down, he reached over to the table and picked up a copy of U.S. News & World Report. He read on the cover that the automobile industry was recovering.

The silent man stood watching him, not knowing what to do. When Parker didn't look up, he shrugged and went out and closed the door again. Parker put the magazine down and got to his feet. He studied the two fox-hunting prints on the wall, but neither were one-way mirrors. He looked at the unmarked door. The knob was a golden brass, with the keyhole set in it. It looked like a tough lock. Parker thought of three men he knew who could go through it like a knife through butter.

Five minutes went by, and the silent man came back, looking mistrustful. He said, "Mr. Carter will see you. I've got to frisk you first."

Parker raised his arms at his sides. Mal was dead now, and the mean urgency was out of him. He was reasonable now, a businessman coming to discuss a debt. The silent man could frisk him -- it didn't matter.

The silent man finished and stepped back. "You're clean," he said grudgingly. He unlocked the door and led the way through. They went through the gray office and the living room -- bar into Mr. Carter's office. Mr. Carter sat at his desk, reading a mimeographed stock report. He looked up and said, "I didn't know Mal was dead."

"He is."

"Oh, I don't doubt your word." He motioned at the leather chair Mal had sat in. "Sit down there."

The silent man was behind Parker. He turned away, heading for his chair in the corner, and Parker spun around, Left hand extended, fingers rigid. The tips of his fingers jolted into the silent man's side, just above the belt. The silent man grunted and bent sideways, trying to breathe. Parker's right hand came across, balled in a fist, and clipped the side of his jaw, just under the ear. The silent man started to fall, and before he hit the floor Parker had the .32 out of his hip holster. He turned back and Mr. Carter was still reaching into his drawer. He stopped when he saw the .32 pointed at him.

Parker said, "Close the drawer."

Mr. Carter looked at his man on the floor and closed the drawer. Parker broke the .32 open and emptied the shells into his hand. The noses had been scored, to make them spread when they hit. He walked over to the desk and put the .32 on the green blotter. The shells rattled into the wastebasket.

"You don't want me with a gun. I don't want you with a gun either."

Mr. Carter looked at his man again. "He's one of the best."

Parker shook his head. "No, he isn't. He lulls too easy." He sat down in the leather chair. "We can talk now."

Mr. Carter smiled thinly. "I think Resnick lied to me."

"Why? What did he say?"

"He said he shot you, took your proceeds from a payroll robbery, and ran off with your wife."

"One part's a lie. My wife was the one who shot me."

"Oh? That way I can see it." Mr. Carter spread his hands palm down on the blotter, to either side of the empty gun. "There's something you want from me?"

"Mal gave you people eighty thousand dollars."

"Paid us. It was a debt."

"Forty-five thousand of it was mine. I want it back."

Mr. Carter's faint smile disappeared. He blinked, looked again at his man on the floor and said, "You can't be serious."

"It's my money."

"The organization was owed a certain sum," Mr. Carter said. "The organization was paid. Any debt Resnick owed you has died with him, so far as the organization is concerned. We don't undertake to settle our employees' personal debts."

Parker said, "You people have forty-five thousand dollars of my money. You'll give it to me."

Mr. Carter shook his head. "The request would never be approved. The organization would certainly decline to -- "

Parker interrupted. "The funnies call it the syndicate. The goons and hustlers call it the Outfit. You call it the organization. I hope you people have fun with your words. But I don't care if you call yourselves the Red Cross, you owe me forty-five thousand dollars and you'll pay me back whether you like it or not."

Mr. Carter's cold smile came back to his lips. "Do you realize, my friend, just what you're trying to fight? Do you have any idea just how many employees are on our organization payroll, coast to coast? Just how many affiliate organizations in how many towns? How many officials we control at local and state level all across the country?"

Parker shrugged. "You're as big as the Post Office. So you've got the assets, you can pay me back my money with no trouble at all."

Mr. Carter shook his head. "I'm trying to tell you for your own good," he said, "uh -- I've forgotten your name. Resnick told me but I'm sorry, it slipped my mind."

"Parker. It won't again."

The smile strengthened for just a second. "No, I don't suppose it will. All right, Parker, allow me to give you the facts of life. The organization is not unreasonable. It pays its debts, works within acceptable business ethics, and does its best to run at a profit. Except for the fact that it works outside the law, it conforms as closely as possible to the corporate concept. In other words, if you had come to me with a legitimate corporate debt, you would have no trouble. But you are asking us to reimburse you for a personal debt contracted by a former employee. No corporation in the world would agree to that, Parker, and I'm sure our organization wouldn't either."

"Mal gave you money that didn't belong to him. It belonged to me. You know that now, so you can give it back."

"In the first place," said Mr. Carter, "/ personally couldn't give it back. That would have to be the result of a top-level decision. In the second place, I can't tell you right now that I'm so certain what that decision would be that I'm not even going to pass the request on."

"It's not a request," Parker said. Without waiting for a comment on that, he went on. "What's your job in this organization, anyway -- this corporation of yours? What are you, a vice president or something?"

"You might call me a regional manager. With another gentleman -- "

"Fairfax."

Mr. Carter nodded, smiling. "Resnick told you quite a bit before he died, didn't he? Yes, Mr. Fairfax. He and I manage the New York interests of the organization."

"All right, then who runs the whole thing? You said you knew what the decision would be. Who'd make the decision?"

"A committee would -- "

"One man, Carter. You go up high enough, you always come to one man."

"Not exactly. Not in this case. Three men. Any one of them, actually -- "

"Are any of them in New York?"

"One. But if you're asking me to call -- "

"I'm not asking you to call." Parker heard movement behind him. He got to his feet. The silent man was coming back to consciousness, doing a push-up off the floor, getting his knees beneath him. Parker heel-kicked him in the head, and he subsided. He turned back to Mr. Carter. "I'm not asking you to call," he repeated. "I'm telling you to call."

"What will you do if I refuse?"

"Kill you, and wait for Fairfax to come back to town."

Mr. Carter made a tent of his fingers ^d studied it. His lips pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed. He looked up from under his brows at Parker and said, "I believe you. And if I call, and this gentleman refuses, as I know he will?"

"I don't know," Parker told him. "Let's see what he has to say."

Mr. Carter thought about it some more. Finally he said, "Very well. You're not going to get anywhere, but I'll call." He reached for the phone and dialed. Parker watched, remembering the number. Mr. Carter waited a moment, then said, "Fred Carter to talk to your boss, sweetheart." He paused, then frowned with annoyance and said, "Tell him Fred Carter." Another pause and, with more irritation, he said, "Bronson. I want to talk to Bron-son."

Parker smiled at him, but he didn't smile back.

There was a longer wait before Bronson came on the line, and then Mr. Carter said, "Fred Carter here. I'm sorry to call you about this, but there's a problem. And your secretary made me say your name. No, I didn't want to -- there's someone else here. That's essentially the problem."

Parker sat listening as Mr. Carter outlined the situation. He smiled again when Mr. Carter said the money had come from a payroll robbery in Des Moines. After that, he just sat and listened.

When the story was done, there was a pause and Mr. Carter said, "I explained all that to him. He insisted I call or he'd kill me. He's already killed his ex-wife and this man Resnick, and God knows how many others."

"Nine," said Parker, though he didn't know if that was right or not.

There was more talk. Finally Mr. Carter said, "All right. Hold on." He cupped the mouthpiece. "He wants to call one of the other two, in Florida. Then he'll call us back."

Parker shook his head. "The second you hang up, he'll send an army. We do it in one phone call."

Mr. Carter relayed the information, then said to Parker, "He says in that case the answer is no."

"Let me talk to him."

"He wants to talk to you." Mt. Carter handed over the receiver.