Parker 01 - The Hunter (7 page)

"I don't know. He used to be dead, and now he isn't. I don't know what he could do. What else did you tell him?"

"Nothing, Mal." Stegman spread his hands. "What could 1 tell him? I didn't know anything else."

"Then why didn't he kill you?"

Stegman blinked. "He must of believed me."

"You gave him something else. To save your own stinking skin, you gave him something else. A name, maybe -- somebody who knows where to find me."

"I swear to Christ, Mal -- "

"Haskell's name, maybe. Didn't you?"

"On my mother, Mal -- "

"Up your mother. Did you or didn't you?" Mal waved a hand, keeping Stegman from answering. "Wait a minute. Don't cover yourself for nothing. I'm not down on you, I know the way that bastard comes on. If you told him about Haskell, I want Haskell to be ready for him, that's all -- you got nothing to worry about."

"I didn't tell him about Haskell," said Stegman. "I didn't give him any names at all, I swear it."

"What, then? You told him I was for sure in New York."

The denial hung on Stegman's lips, then fell back into his throat. He nodded. "I had to give him something, Mal," he said. "He kept flexing those goddam hands of his."

"All right. All right." Mal nodded, his whole torso moving. "That was good, Art, don't worry about it. That means he'll stick around town. That wasn't bad."

"I just had to give him something, that's all, so he wouldn't think I was holding out on him."

"That's all right. Just so you don't hold out on me either. Where did he say to contact him?"

"He didn't, Mal. Jesus, I'm not lying. I wasn't even going to give you the word at all, only we been friends -- "

"Bushwah. You were afraid he'd get to me, and I'd find out."

"Mal, we been friends."

"Where are you supposed to call? If you run into me, you're supposed to call him."

Stegman's head shook back and forth. "He didn't even suggest it, Mal. He didn't even suggest it."

Mal pondered, chewing his lower lip, thinking it over. Finally he said, "Okay. That's the way he'd work. He wouldn't trust you either."

"You can trust me, Mal. For Christ's sake -- "

"Yeah, I know -- we're friends."

"We been friends for years, Mal."

"You had him. And you let him go." Mal nodded. "All right, Art. Now find him again."

Stegman raised his hands. "What? How do I do that? I don't know nothing about him."

"I don't care how you do it, just do it."

"I wouldn't know how to start, Mal. For Christ's sake, give me a break."

"I'm giving you a break, you bastard. I'm giving you a chance to make up for doing it wrong the first time."

"Mal, there just isn't any way -- "

Mal leaned forward over the table. "Sweetie," he said, "there's got to be a way. You hear me? I got friends, and that means there's got to be a way. Unless maybe you want to drive all your cabs yourself."

Stegman opened his mouth to argue some more, but then he closed it again and looked down at the table. "I'll try, Mal," he said. "I don't know how the hell I'll do it, but I'll try."

"Good boy." Mal leaned back, smiling. "There's one of him. I got the whole Outfit on my side. What can he do?"

"Sure, Mal."

"Get us a couple beers, Artie."

Stegman got hurriedly to his feet. "Right away, Mal. Never mind, I'll spring."

Mal hadn't reached for his wallet at all.

Mal walked down the third-floor hall of the Outfit hotel, and knocked at the door of suite 312. He waited, and when the blond girl in the red bra and the pink toreador pants opened the door, he said, "I want to talk to Phil. Tell him Mal Resnick."

"Okay." She closed the door again, leaving him in the hall. He lit a cigarette and then, remembering Phil's asthma, he looked around for a place to put it out again. The floor was deep-pile carpeted, and the nearest sand urn was way down by the elevators. Mal hurried down and stubbed out the cigarette. He was halfway back when the door opened again, and the blonde stepped out to look for him. He waved and trotted, feeling like a fool.

She watched him deadpan, and turned away when he got to the door. He followed her inside, panting slightly, and over her shoulder she said, "Close the door."

"Sure."

"Phil says to sit down out here. He'll be along in a minute."

"Okay. Thanks."

She went away, deeper into the suite, not looking back at him, and Mal settled in the white sofa, grateful for the chance to catch his breath.

He looked around at the living room, which was nearly twice as big as his own and even more opulently furnished. Phil had four rooms, and they were all like this. Phil was way up in the chain of command, the highest man Mal could go to directly. Some day, he told himself, he'd have four rooms like this, and a blonde like that piece in the red bra. That was good stuff.

He wouldn't have any more bags like that Pearl. Nothing but good stuff, filling red bras, with tight butts in pink toreador pants, and flat bellies with that little bump at the lower part of the abdomen. That was the kind of thing he wanted, and that was the kind of thing he was due for. He was watching his step, he was doing his job, and he was proving his mettle. They had him slated for big things, and he knew it.

Phil kept him waiting ten minutes. When he finally came out, he wore nothing but a pair of gray slacks. A lipstick smudge was clearly outlined against the skin of his chest, just under the left nipple. Mal looked at him, and knew that Phil kept him waiting while he tore off a piece. With that blonde. Mal kept his face blank. He could wait.

The day was coming when they'd wait for him in his living room while he tore off a piece with something like that. He had it already, underlings, guys who waited when he said to wait, and he had broads. But he was going to have better.

What could Parker do against him? He was set, he was on the escalator, he was riding up. What could that one-man son of a bitch do?

Phil said, "How ya doing, Mal?" and turned his back to go over to the bar and make himself a drink. Coming back, he said, "You want something? The fixings are there."

"Thanks, Phil."

Mal made himself a quick drink, good Scotch and an ice cube ;ind a splash of Vichy. He came back and Phil was stretched out on the sofa, so he took the leather chair instead.

Phil sipped at his drink. "You look nervous, Mal. Something wrong with the operation?"

"No, no, nothing like that. Smooth as silk, Phil. I keep everything smooth as silk, you know that."

"Sure. You're a good manager type, Mal."

Mal grinned. "Thanks. What I wanted, I was wondering if you could set me up an appointment with Mr. Fairfax."

"Justin?" Phil raised an eyebrow, then shook his head. "Sorry, buddy," he said. "Justin is down in Florida right now."

"Mr. Carter, then."

"Mr. Carter," repeated Phil. "Nothing but the best, huh, Mal? Sure it isn't something I could handle?"

This was tricky. Phil could help him; Phil could hurt him -- in the job, in the career. Mal grinned awkwardly, saying, "This isn't really Outfit business, Phil. Not directly. It's something personal. But I'd need to talk to Mr. Fairfax or Mr. Carter."

Phil considered, swirling the ice cubes in his glass. Then he said, "I'll see what I can do for you, Mal. I don't promise anything, you understand that, but I'll see what I can do."

"I'd appreciate it, Phil, I really would."

"Now," said Phil, "I'll have to know what it's all about. You know that. I can't go to Fred Carter and say, 'This fella Mal Resnick -- he's one of the boys -- he wants to see you,' and not know what it's all about. You know that. He'll say, 'Phil, what does this boy want?' You see what I mean?"

Mal chewed on his lower lip. "It's this way," he said. "There's this guy, he's got it in for me."

"An Outfit boy?"

"No, no -- outside the Outfit."

Phil nodded. "Okay."

"Anyway, I thought he was dead. But all of a sudden, he's around, he's looking for me."

"And what is it you want, Mal? You can't handle this guy yourself?"

"Sure I can. But I don't know where he is. He's somewhere in town, and I don't know where. Now, he's poking his nose in, he's asking questions, he's stirring things up. I want to find this guy, you see what I mean? Before he rocks the boat."

"You want us to help you find him, is that it? And then you'll take care of him yourself."

"Sure. That's it. I fight my own battles, Phil. But I need help finding the bastard."

"What is this guy? You say he ain't Outfit."

"He's a heister, a hijacker. An independent."

"He's got a string with him?"

Mal didn't know for sure, one way or the other. Figuring Parker, probably not. He'd want to take care of this by himself. "No string. He's a loner."

Phil finished his drink, taking his time, and then got to his feet. "All right, buddy," he said. "I'll talk to Mr. Carter. You stick close to your room. Okay?"

Mal stood, gulping the rest of his Scotch and Vichy. "Will do," he said. "Thanks a lot, Phil."

"Any time, buddy." Phil smiled and patted his shoulder. "Any time you've got a problem, pal, you come talk it over with me. Right?"

"Sure, Phil. Thanks."

"Right. And now if you'll excuse me, buddy, I've got a little something -- "

"Oh, sure," said Mal. "Sure thing." He started for the door, realized the empty glass was still in his hand, and detoured to the bar. Then he smiled quickly at Phil, who stood there in the middle of the room waiting for him to go, and left.

The office building was thirty-seven stories high. In gold letters on the frosted glass door of 706 were the words: frederick CARTER, Investments. Mal pushed open the door and entered an empty anteroom. A bell rang faintly as he closed the door.

Two sofas, two standing lamps, two end tables, a stack of back issues of U.S. News & World Report. An unmarked wooden door across the room. Mal stood hesitating, wondering whether or not to sit down and wait, when the door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man, who looked like a movie cowboy, but wore a dark gray business suit, came out and closed the door again after him. Mal heard the lock click shut.

The man said, "Can I help you?" There was a trace of roughness left in a voice that tried to be soft.

Mal said, "I'm Mal Resnick. I have an appointment with Mr. Carter."

"Resnick," said the man. "Yes, I remember. Turn around, please."

Mal turned around, and the man came over to pat him briefly, frisking him. His wallet was slipped out of his pocket, his driver's license read, and the wallet put back. "All right," said the man. "Come with me."

Mal turned around again, glad he'd resisted the impulse to wear a gun -- with Parker somewhere in New York, maybe he'd need one, maybe they'd just bump into each other on the street or something -- and waited while the man unlocked the door and led the way through.

They crossed a gray office with functional gray furnishings, and through another door to a kind of living room -- bar.

"Wait here. Please do not drink," the man said, unsmiling.

Mal waited, and after a couple of minutes the man came back, holding the inner door open and saying, "Mr. Carter will see you now."

"Thank you."

Mal went into Mr. Carter's office. The man closed the door again and went over to sit impassive in a corner to the right. Mr. Carter said, "Come on in, Resnick. Sit down."

Mr. Carter was an impressive man. His resemblance to Louis Calhern was startling. Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, he brought to mind visions of Wall Street and high finance, rails and steel and banking. Law books and economic treatises filled the glass-doored bookshelves. Photographs, unsigned, of presidents were spotted around the walls.

He motioned now to a brown leather chair in front of his desk, and Mal settled into it promptly, trying to sit tall and alert. "Phil tells me you have a personal problem you want us to help you with. Is that right?"

Mal swallowed. It wasn't a good beginning. "Well, it's a personnel problem, but I thought it might hurt the Outfit if this guy was to keep nosing around."

Mr. Carter made a tent of his fingers. "That's a possibility," he said. "Now there are three possible ways to handle this situa-lion." He ticked them off on his fingers. "First, we could give you the assistance you ask for. Second, we could ignore the problem and let you handle it yourself, as best you may. Third, if it seemed that there actually was a danger to the smooth operation of our organization, we could have you replaced."

Mal blinked, and looked instinctively over his shoulder at the other man, but he was still just sitting there, impassive.

"Each of these alternatives," Mr. Carter went on quietly, "has its advantages. We have an investment in you, Resnick, of time and money and training. After one mistake in Chicago, you've done very well in the organization. If we choose our first alternative, and give you our assistance, we'll be protecting our investment in you, which is always good business policy."

"I'd appreciate it, Mr. Carter," Mal said hurriedly. "I'd do good work, you'd never regret it."

"If we choose our second alternative," Mr. Carter said, ignoring him, "that of ignoring the problem and leaving it to your own devices, there is another advantage to consider. A man in our organization, Resnick, has to be tough and self-reliant. Were you to handle this problem completely on your own, you would leave no doubt in anyone's mind that you were the kind of man we want, the kind of man who could go places in our organization."

Mal nodded briskly. "I want to handle it myself, Mr. Carter," he said. "All I want is some help finding this guy. Once he's spotted, I can take care of it myself."

"However," said Mr. Carter, "there is always that business in Chicago. You made good on that, you paid us back for your blunder. But still the blunder did happen. And it leaves a question in our minds. Perhaps you don't have the mettle we require. You're a good administrator in your area, but being a good administrator is not enough. Perhaps the blunder in Chicago -- and the fact that you have allowed an area of your personal life to become a possible danger to the organization -- are indications that you are not our kind of man. In that case, our most profitable move would be to have you eliminated as a factor in the organization. That would automatically remove the external danger you have brought to us."