Parker 01 - The Hunter (8 page)

Mal sat silent, every nerve tense. His lips trembled, but no arguments came to his mind.

Mr. Carter studied the tent of his fingers. His lips pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed. Finally, he raised his eyes and said, "Before making my decision, perhaps I'd better know more about your problem. According to Phil, there is a man unconnected with the organization who has a grudge against you, and who has come to New York looking for you, apparently to kill you. You also say that he is alone, and that he is a professional robber. Is that right?"

Mal nodded. "That's right. He does payroll jobs, banks, things like that."

"What is his name?"

"Parker."

Mr. Carter frowned. "Doesn't he have a first name?"

"I don't know it, Mr. Carter. He never called himself anything but Parker. His wife must of known it, but she never told me. I never thought to ask."

"And does this wife of Parker's have something to do with the grudge?"

"Yes, sir."

"In other words, you are being hunted by a cuckolded husband, is that it?"

Mal considered, thinking fast. If he said yes, there wouldn't be any embarrassing questions about that hijacking job. But would the Outfit think it important enough to help a guy having trouble with some broad's husband? Probably not. Mal took a deep breath. "There's more to it than that, Mr. Carter," he said.

"Yes. I thought there must be. Where did you get the eighty thousand dollars, Resnick?"

"Mr. Carter, I -- "

"That's what this man is here for, isn't it? The eighty thousand dollars you paid us back?"

Mal gnawed his lip. "Yes."

Mr. Carter sat back, his leather chair creaking expensively. "We never asked you where you got that money, Resnick," he said. "It wasn't our business. You owed us a debt, and you paid it, and we gave you a second chance. Now it appears that it is our business after all. Where did you get the money, Resnick?"

"A -- a heist. A holdup, Mr. Carter."

"And who was held up? This man Parker?"

"No, sir."

"He was part of the gang that performed the holdup?"

"Yes, sir."

Mr. Carter nodded, gazing over Mal's head at the opposite wall. "You betrayed your associate for profit," he said. "Not always a reprehensible action, if there was a sensible motive. And this time there was a sensible motive. You wanted to repay us for your blunder."

"That's right, Mr. Carter." Mal leaned forward eagerly in his chair. "I set the thing up, you see, and this guy Parker tried a double cross first. But it didn't work, and I switched it back on him."

"You shouldn't have left him alive, Resnick," Mr. Carter said. "That was a serious error of judgment."

"I thought he was dead, Mr. Carter. I shot him, and he sure as hell looked dead. And then I set fire to the house he was in."

"I see." Mr. Carter spread his hands palm down on the green blotter atop his desk and considered his fingernails. "There is one more matter," he said. "Just where did this holdup take place?"

Mal had already seen that question coming, and he knew that this time the truth would be more dangerous than any lie. There was always the chance -- and a pretty good chance at that -- that either Mr. Carter himself or some friend of his had invested in that munitions deal. It was time for a lie.

But Mr. Carter just might check the lie. Mal remembered Parker mentioning that he and Ryan had worked together on a job in Des Moines not long before the island job. Mal didn't know the details but it had taken place and it was the only other one he knew. So he said, "In Des Moines, Mr. Carter, about a year and a half ago. A payroll job."

"I see. And you left with Parker's share of the money and also with Parker's wife, is that it?"

Mal nodded. "Yes, sir."

Mr. Carter permitted himself a wintry smile. "His grudge, therefore," he said, "is perfectly understandable."

"It was him or me, Mr. Carter."

"Of course. Is Mrs. Parker still with you?"

"No, sir. We broke up about three months ago. I heard he killed her yesterday."

"Killed her? Do you suppose he found out first where to find you?"

"She didn't know, Mr. Carter."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yes, sir."

"All right." Mr. Carter made a tent of his fingers again, and studied the fingertips. His lips pursed and relaxed, fishlike, and the silence in the room lengthened. The silent man in the corner shifted position, causing a slight rustle, and Mal jumped, his head snapping around, his eyes staring. He breathed again when he saw that the man was still just sitting there, impassive, smoking a cigarette.

Mal wanted a cigarette. He wanted one badly. But he didn't think it would be right to light one. He licked his lips and waited.

Finally, Mr. Carter looked up. "If you remember," he said, "we have three possible choices." He ticked them off on his fingers. "Assist you, leave you to your own devices, or eliminate you from the organization. For the moment, I think we will pursue number two. If you manage to handle this problem yourself, so much the better. If you find you're having too much difficulty, come back and we'll talk it over, and decide whether we should shift to choice one or choice three." His wintry smile came out again, "I think that's our best decision for now."

Mal got unsteadily to his feet, a growing chill in the pit of his stomach. "Thank you, Mr. Carter."

"That's perfectly all right. Any time. Oh, and Resnick. You are responsible for the work of a group within the organization. That group has a sufficient workload. They won't be available to help you in this personal matter."

"No, sir," said Mal.

"One other thing. Perhaps it would be best, until this matter is settled one way or the other, if you were to move out of the Oakwood Arms. Your suite will be saved for you, of course. We wouldn't want any unpleasantness at the hotel. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Mal.

The silent man accompanied him to the outer door.

Mal stood at the phone, counting the rings. On the tenth, he jammed his thumb on the cradle button, breaking the connection, and dialed another number. Pearl wasn't at home. Maybe she was at that crummy bar again.

She wasn't. The bartender recognized his voice and told him no, Pearl wasn't there. It irritated him that the bartender recognized his voice. He'd been relying on Pearl too much, he should get hold of something else.

It occurred to him that she might be at the hotel, waiting for him, not knowing that he'd moved, or that at least he could leave a message for her there at the desk. But the hell with it. He wanted something else, something good. Like that blonde of Phil's.

He hesitated, almost calling the Oakwood Arms anyway, but finally dialing a different number. A woman answered, a woman with a husky cigarette-raw voice, and he said, "Mal Resnick, Irma. I could use a girl."

"Couldn't we all, honey? What's your price range?"

"I want something good, Irma," he said, visualizing what he wanted. "A blonde, something really good. For all night."

"Mal, honey," she said, "it's been a while since you called. There's been something I've wanted to say to you."

"What?"

"The envelope, honey. The last two girls complained to me. There wasn't enough in the envelope."

He laughed, feeling not at all like laughing. "What the hell, Irma, discount to a fellow worker in the Outfit, right?"

"Wrong, honey. The girls got to make a living too. They got their price, they want to stick with customers who pay the price, you see what I mean?"

Mal was in no mood to argue. "All right," he said abruptly. "All right, all right. I'll pay a hundred cents on the dollar. Satisfied?"

"Rarely, honey. Now I asked you, what price range?"

"I told you what I wanted. A blonde, something really good. Young, Irma, young and stacked."

"You are talking about a hundred dollars, honey."

Mal frowned and gnawed his lip, then nodded convulsively. "All right," he said. "A hundred. For the night."

"What else? You're at the Outfit, aren't you?"

"No, I moved. The St. David on 57th Street. Room 516."

"You want to take her out to dinner, a show, anything like that?"

"I want her here, Irma. In the rack, you follow me?"

Irma laughed throatily. "An athletic blonde," she said. "She'll be there by eight o'clock."

"Fine."

Mal hung up, and turned around to face the room, but there wasn't any bar in it. Thirty-two dollars a day, and no bar. He turned back and called room service. Two bottles, glasses, ice. They'd be right up.

It was barely seven o'clock. He had an hour to kill. He paced the room, disgusted. A hundred dollars for a lay: that was disgusting. Parker coming back from the dead: that was disgusting. Getting screwed up this way with the Outfit: that was disgusting. Even the room was disgusting.

The room was one of four. He wasn't sure what had made him do that, splurge on a four-room suite costing thirty-two dollars a day, any more than he was sure why he was throwing away a hundred dollars on a broad who couldn't possibly do any more for him than Pearl would. And who would, probably, since they would be strangers, do even less.

But he had splurged, reason or no reason he had splurged, on the girl and on the suite. Knowing that neither could be worth it.

The suite, for instance. This living room. It was old. The paint was new, the furnishings and fixtures were new, the prints on the walls were new, but beneath it all the room was old, and in the way of hotel rooms the oldness managed to gleam dirtily through the new overlay. And besides being old, it was impersonal. The suite at the Outfit hotel was bis, it was where he lived. This suite wasn't lived in by anybody, now or ever, any more than a compartment in a Pullman car was lived in. It could be occupied, but it couldn't be lived in.

The girl would be the same way.

He was doing things wrong, he was making stupid mistakes, and what made it worse was the fact that he knew it. The knowledge that Parker was alive had rattled him more than he liked to admit. Going to Mr. Carter, for instance. He'd gained nothing, and maybe he'd lost.

Now Mr. Carter was watching him. Now he had to get Parker, not just avoid him but get him. This was a test and the Outfit was watching, and if he failed now he was through forever. This time he was too far up the chain of command to just be put out in the street. This time they would have to kill him.

He had to work alone. If he hadn't gone to Mr. Carter, he could have used some of the boys in his group, even given one of them the assignment of finishing Parker. Now he'd screwed up that chance, too. He had to work alone.

Stegman wouldn't find Parker, he knew that. Stegman couldn't possibly find Parker. It was up to him, completely up to him.

Suddenly he stopped his pacing, struck with an idea. There was a way to use the Outfit. It was dangerous as hell, but he could do it. He'd have to do it. There wasn't any other way.

He hurried across the room to the telephone and quickly dialed a number. When Fred Haskell answered, he said, "Fred, I want you to pass a word around for me."

"Sure, Mal. Anything you say. How'd it go with Stegman?"

"Fine, fine. It's about that. This guy who's looking for me, his name is Parker. Now I've moved out of the Outfit for a while, I'm staying at the St. David on 57th, room 516. You spread the word around. If anybody asks for me, asks any of the guys, this Parker shows up, tell him where I am. You got that?"

"You want us to tell him?"

"Right. Not easy, not right off the bat, or he'll smell something fishy. But let him know where I am. Then call me right away. You got that? They don't call you, they call me."

"Okay, Mal. Whatever you say."

"Make sure they call me right away."

"I'll tell them, Mal."

"Okay."

Mal hung up and took a deep breath. All right. When the time came, he knew a couple of guys he could hire to hang around with him. They worked for the Outfit sometimes, sometimes not -- they were like free-lancers. It wouldn't be the same as using Outfit people.

There was a knock at the door. Mal started, eyes jerking involuntarily to the phone. He called, "Who is it?"

"Room service."

"Hold it. Hold on a second."

The gun was in the bedroom, on the bed, next to the suitcase. He hurried in, picked it up, brought it back to the living room with him. The pocket of the dressing gown was large; the gun was a smallish .32, an English make. He held tightly to the gun in his pocket and opened the door.

A kid in a red and black bellboy uniform wheeled in a chrome cart with the liquor and mix and glasses and ice. Mal closed the door after him, and only then relaxed his grip on the gun. He fumbled in the bottom of his pocket, past the gun, and his fingers found two quarters. They went into the bellboy's open hand, and Mal clutched the gun again as he opened the door for the bellboy to go out. There was no one else in the hall.

Alone again, he made himself a drink, glancing at the phone. He looked at his watch and it was only quarter after seven. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes. If she was early, she'd get an extra ten.

He went into the bedroom and cleared the suitcase off the bed and pulled the spread down. He kept standing looking at the bed. His right hand clutched the gun in his pocket.

She was only five minutes early, so he decided the hell with the extra ten. When she knocked at the door, he went through the same routine as with the bellboy, holding hard to the gun in his pocket, calling through the door. He didn't hear what she answered, but it was a female voice so he opened the door, and she smiled at him and came in.

She was a knockout. Better than Phil's, a million times better. She looked like Vassar maybe, or some hotshot's private secretary on Madison Avenue, or a starlet on the Grace Kelly line.

She was a blonde, like he'd asked for, with medium-short pale hair in one of those television hairdos. Perched atop the hairdo was a black box hat with a little veil. She wore a gray suit and a green silk scarf, like a photo in Vogue,