The Outfit

by Richard Stark

  Parker said, “Tell him I got a new face.”

  The boy turned his head and gazed at him, the same way the dog gazed. The woman frowned and said, “What the hell kind of talk is that?” She was very fat, forty or forty-five, with a fat white face under the orange hair. She was wearing a dark-blue dress with pink flowers on it.

  “Plastic surgery,” Parker told her. “He’ll have to recognize me by voice and build and what I know.”

  The woman shook her head. “Go on, Elly,” she said. To Parker she said, “You can wait right there.”

  The boy came down off the porch and walked around to the garage. He was wearing dungarees and nothing else. He was tanned as dark as an Indian, and his sun-faded blond hair was shaggy and long. He opened a door in the side of the garage and went inside, closing the door after him. The door squealed loudly in the silence, and seemed to affect the light oddly. Instead of a shaft of sunlight angling through the opening and lighting the interior of the garage, it was as though a shaft of darkness pooled out on the ground outside the door when it was opened.

  Parker asked, “You want a cigarette?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “I think I’ll have one,” he said.

  He had wanted her to know what he was reaching for. She nodded, and he slowly took cigarettes and matches from his pocket. Then he stood smoking in the hot, dry air. The dog watched him, unwinking.

  The squealing door opened again, and the boy stood in the pool of darkness, gazing at him. Then he turned and said something to somebody inside. Parker waited.

  The boy came into the sunlight again, and a short, skinny mat in overalls came out after him. The man had dry black hair and narrow face. His bare shoulders were pale and covered will freckles. He came walking over and stood studying Parker for a minute.

  Then he said, “Well, I’ll be darned. Got yourself a new face eh?”

  “It’s your brother I wanted,” Parker told him.

  The skinny man frowned. “What’s that you say?”

  “I asked for your brother.”

  “The hell,” said the skinny man. “You asked for Chemy.”

  “And you’re Kent.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Go tell your brother I want to buy a car. Like the Ford with the bullet holes in the trunk.”

  The skinny man scratched his head. “You sound like Parker, he said. “You sure as hell act like Parker. And you know the right stuff to be Parker. But you don’t look like Parker.”

  “Plastic surgery. I told your wife.”

  “Lemme see if Chemy’s here.”

  “I’ll come along. It’s hot out in the sun.”

  The skinny man frowned and said, “You got all Parker’s brass I’ll give you that much. What would you do if that dog there took to leap at you?”

  Parker glanced at the dog. “Break its neck,” he said.

  “Yuh. And what if I was to whip out a pistol and start shooting down on you?”

  “I’d take it away like Handy McKay did that time.”

  The skinny man flushed, and on the porch the woman started to laugh. She had a high Betty Boop sort of giggle, complete! different from her speaking voice. The skinny man turned to her and said, “Shut your face!” She stopped immediately. He spin back to Parker. “I think you’re a phony, mister,” he said. “I think you better get off this property.”

  Parker shook his head. Over the skinny man’s head, he called to the woman, “You want to keep that dog right there next to you ” Then he started walking towards the garage. The skinny man hollered and made as if it come after him, but then he stopped. The woman rested her hand on the dog’s head and watched Parker cross the yard.

  The side door of the garage opened again, and a man came out with a shotgun cradled on his arm. He was short and skinny, like the other one, with the same kind of narrow face and dead hair.. He was similarly dressed in faded blue, bibbed overalls. They were obviously brothers, but what was petulance in Kent’s face became strength in Chemy’s. He came out, closed the door after him, and said, ”.Stop right there, friend.”

  Parker stopped. “Hello, Chemy,” he said.

  Chemy looked past him at Kent. “Well? Is he Parker or ain’t he Parker?”

  Kent didn’t answer at first. Parker half-turned and looked back at him. “Am I, Kent?”

  “Yuh,” said Kent. He said it reluctantly, and glared at the woman, as though daring her to laugh again. But she was silent, her face carefully blank as she watched them, her fingers scratching the top of the dog’s head between its ears.

  To his brother, Chemy said, “Get us a drink. Come on in, Parker.” He led the way back into the garage, and set the shotgun against the wall beside the door.

  The garage was big enough to hold four cars. At the moment, there was a fifteen-year-old, red Ford pickup truck parked down by the far wall, and an orange Volkswagen next to it. The Volkswagen’s rear lid was open and the engine had been removed and was lying on two-by-fours behind the car. The back seat had been taken out, too, and was leaning against the side of the pickup truck. All along the back wall was a workbench, littered with tools, small parts, lengths of wire, and pieces of metal. Automobile body parts were stacked here and there in the remaining space, and two engines hung by chain and pulley from the roof beams. A small plastic radio on the workbench was blaring country and western music; a girl singer with a twang as bad as a harelip was singing about unrequited love.

  “Well, now,” said Chemy. “You sure changed your face around. But you’re still just as mean as ever.”

  “That brother of yours needs a talking to.”

  Chemy shrugged, and grinned faintly. “If you were Parker, you’d do what you done. If you weren’t, you’d let him chase you off the place.”

  Parker shrugged. It didn’t matter one way or the other. He was just hot from the walk.

  Chemy said, “Take a look down here at this VW. What do you think of this? A ‘57 Ford straight-six engine in there in back, and re-did Chevy brakes. Think she’ll move?”

  Parker frowned at the Volkswagen. “No,” he said.

  “No? Why in hell not?”

  “Where’s your cooling system?”

  “Right where the back seat used to be, with scoops down through the floor. ‘51 Plymouth radiator assembly that fits real nice.”

  Parker knew he was supposed to think of every objection he could, so Chemy could show him how smart he was. He said, “Not enough weight for the power. She’ll go like a motorboat with her nose up in the air. You’d have to take corners at ten miles an hour.”

  “No, sir. I’ve weighted down that front end, so your centre of gravity is right here.” He touched a spot low on the side just behind the door.

  “That’s pretty far back.”

  “Oh, she’ll jounce, I know she will. But the weight is just far enough up so you can take corners just about any damn speed you like.”

  Parker shook his head. “She’ll jounce apart,” he said. “She won’t last a year.”

  “I know damn well she won’t. But she’ll last a month, and that’s all she’s wanted for. A car that looks slow but does like a bat out of hell. That’s what this girl is. A special order.”

  “So everything’s worked out then.”

  “No, it ain’t.” Chemy frowned at the car. “One damn thing — you know what that is?”

  “What?”

  “I can’t make her sound like a VW. I’ve tried all sorts of mufflers; I’ve run pipe back and forth underneath there till she looked like a plate of spaghetti; but she never does sound like a VW. You know that little ‘cough-cough’ sounds the VW’s got?

  Your VW fires slow, is what it is, and I be damned if I can get the effect.” He glared at the car again, shaking his head. “I’ll get it,” he said.

  “Sure.” Parker knew he would. Chemy made cars do whatever he wanted them to do.

  “Sure,” agreed Chemy. He turned away from the Volkswagen. “So what do you wa
nt? A car? Anything special?”

  “Just a car. With clean papers.”

  “How clean? To sell?”

  “No. To show if I’m stopped for speeding.”

  “Takin’ her out of the state?”

  “Up north.”

  “All right then.”

  The garage door opened and Kent came in, carrying three glasses and a bottle of corn liquor as colourless as water. He glanced sullenly at his brother and Parker, then went over to the workbench, set the glasses down, and poured three drinks.

  Chemy and Parker went over and they all drank. It was good liquor, leaving a harsh wood-smoke taste on the tongue and a bright burning at the back of the throat.

  Chemy set his glass down and cleared his throat. “How new?” he asked.

  “Doesn’t matter. But I’ll be going maybe a couple thousand miles in it, so I don’t want one ready to fall apart.”

  Chemy nodded. “When?”

  “Now.”

  “Always in a hurry.” Chemy grinned at his brother. “This Parker,” he said. “Always in a hurry, huh?”

  “Huh,” said Kent. He was being surly, staring into his empty glass.

  Chemy winked at Parker, finished his own drink, and said, “I got two in the barn right now, but not what you got to have. Both hot, both no good. I got to take a ride. How much you want to pay?”

  “I’ll go a thousand — if I have to.”

  “Well, maybe you won’t have to. You go set on the porch a while. Come on, Kent.”

  They went outside and Parker strolled over to the house while the two brothers went around behind the garage. He went up to the porch and sat on the other chair. The woman grinned at him showing spaces where she’d lost teeth, and said, “I guess I must of heard about you.”

  “Maybe,” said Parker.

  A six-year-old Pontiac station wagon with Chemy at the wheel and his brother beside him appeared from behind the garage and went off down the rutted road. Parker sat and smoked, waiting The woman tried to start a conversation with him once or twice but he didn’t encourage her, so she quit. The dog got up again after a while, went down off the porch, and loped away around the house. A while later Parker got to his feet, went into the house, and walked through rooms of sagging furniture to the kitchen, where he got himself a drink of water. He didn’t see the boy. The woman followed him in, and stood in the kitchen doorway, smiling hesitantly at him, but not saying anything. When he started out of the kitchen, she murmured, “We got time.”

  He shook his head, and went back out on the porch. She stayed inside the house.

  He waited three hours, and the sun was turning red way off near the western horizon when Chemy and Kent came back. Kent was driving the Pontiac this time, and Chemy was following him in a four-year-old blue Oldsmobile with Alabama plates. Kent took the Pontiac around behind the garage, and Chemy stopped the Oldsmobile in front of the house. He got out and patted the hood and said, “Well? What do you think?”

  “What do you think?”

  Chemy grinned, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t know yet. figure maybe. The car’s hot in Florida, and the plates are hot in Alabama, but the plates are off a LaSalle, so you got nothing to worry about.”

  “LaSalle? There’s still some of them around?”

  “Give me three days around here, Parker, I’ll find you a Marmon.”

  “I don’t want a Marmon.”

  “Sure not. I’ll check this out for you. She run good coming in.”

  Kent had come around from behind the garage, and was now opening one set of doors in front. Chemy got back into the Oldsmobile and drove it into the garage, next to the Volkswagen. Parker walked over after him, went inside, and Kent followed, closing the doors.

  The two brothers spent half an hour checking the car, mostly in silence. Every once in a while, Kent would say, “Look at this,” and Chemy would bend close and peer, and then say, “It’s okay.” A few times it wasn’t okay, and the two would work to make it okay.

  Finally Chemy said, “She’s better than I thought. A southern car all the way, Parker, got none of your northern corrosion.”

  “I thought it was from Florida. What about salt corrosion?”

  “Stolen from Florida. She used to have Tennessee plates on her.”

  •”What about papers?”

  “Right here. Just fill in whatever name you like.”

  Parker had a driver’s licence in his wallet, from one of the poker players who’d been with Meaner. It had the name Maurice Kebbler on it, so that was the name he wrote on the registration. Then he said, “Wait a minute,” and went out to the suitcase still lying on the ground in front of the house. He picked it up and carried it back to the garage. The woman with orange hair was on the porch again, standing there, watching Parker with no expression on her face.

  Parker went into the garage and opened the suitcase on the workbench. There was an envelope in the side pocket of the suitcase, and he took it out and slid seven hundred-dollar bills from it and put them on the bench. Then he put the envelope back in the pocket and closed the suitcase.

  Chemy watched the whole operation, and nodded. “Good enough,” he said. “Kent, open them doors.”

  Kent opened the doors, and the woman with orange hair was standing there. Her face was flushed now, and she looked upset. She said, “Kent, that bastard raped me.”

  Kent just stared at her. Chemy frowned at her and said, “Don’t be foolish.”

  “Godamit, I say he raped me!”

  Kent turned, looking shaken. “Parker. What the hell is this?”

  Parker shrugged.

  Chemy said to the woman, “Come off it, will you?”

  Kent shook his head, looking goggle-eyed at his brother. “Why would she say it, Chemy? If he didn’t do nothing, why would she say he did?”

  “Ask Parker if you want. Don’t ask me.”

  Parker said, “She made me the offer and I turned her down.”

  Kent looked ashen. “You’re a lying son of a bitch!” he shouted. He reached out, got a wrench in his hand, and started across the garage towards Parker.

  The woman turned her head and screamed, “Judge! Here, you, Judge!” And whistled shrilly through the gaps between her teeth.

  “Leave the dog out of this!” shouted Chemy.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Kent,” Parker said.

  “I’ll break your head open, you son of a bitch.” Kent was as white as the inside of a potato, and he shuffled slowly forward, the wrench held out from his body in his right hand.

  Parker turned his head, saying, “Chemy, you want me to kill your brother?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Then call him off.”

  “I couldn’t do that, Parker. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t do that.”

  Parker frowned. “Chemy, do you believe that bag?”

  “That ain’t for me to say, Parker; I ain’t the husband. I’m just the brother-in-law.”

  “Then you’ll keep out, won’t you?”

  “Unless my brother gets hurt.”

  Kent said, “I won’t be the one gets hurt.” He dashed in suddenly, face contorted, arm looping up and over with the wrench.

  Parker ran inside the descending curve, butting Kent in the face with the top of his head, kneeing him, chopping upward with the rigid side of his hand against the soft underpart of Kent’s upper arm. Kent cried out as his arm went dead and the wrench fell to the floor. Parker stepped back and hit him twice, and Kent followed the wrench down and didn’t move.

  The woman was screaming for the dog again. Chemy wasn’t saying anything at all now, but he was leaning against the side of the Oldsmobile and looking on with an expression of regret on his face.

  Parker turned and strode swiftly to the side door. He grabbed up the shotgun and turned with it as the dog, lean and fast and silent, came loping on a long curve into the garage. The woman was screaming “Sic ‘im,” and Chemy was shouting for the dog to come back. But the
woman’s voice was louder and the dog kept coming. Parker had the shotgun by the barrels and he swung it like a baseball bat. The dog leaped into the swing. The wooden stock cracked against the side of its head and sent it tumbling away to the side, to crash into a pile of junk and lay still.

  Parker turned the shotgun around and said, “My best move is to finish the three of you.”

  “I’m neutral, Parker,” Chemy said.

  “No, you’re not. That bag wants to see your brother get killed, Chemy. She sent him after me hoping I’d do it.”

  The woman stared at him, open mouthed.

  “Shut up,” said Chemy. “Parker never touched you.”

  Parker said, “Can you convince your brother?”

  “Sure I can. Why should I?”

  “I don’t leave loose ends behind me.”

  Chemy thought it over, gazing down at his brother, unconscious on the floor. Finally, he said, “I guess I see what you mean. All right, I’ll convince him.”

  “How?”

  Chemy grinned bleakly. “She offered it to me, too, once or twice.”

  “Lies!”

  They both ignored her. Parker said, “I’ll wake him up.”

  “No. You take off. It’d be better if we was alone when I told him. He’d be able to take it better.”

  “You are going to tell him?”

  “I swear it, Parker.”

  “All right.” Parker put the shotgun down.

  Chemy asked, “You want to give this bitch a ride into town? I figure she ought to be outa here before Kent gets the word.”

  “She can walk.”

  “I guess she can at that.” He turned and looked at the woman. “Get started,” he said. “If Kent wants to kill you, I won’t do nothing to stop him.”

  “You took the offer, you bastard!” she screamed at him.

  Chemy turned his back on her, saying to Parker, “You might as well take off now. Sorry we had all this fuss.”

  “I’ll be seeing you,”

  Parker stowed his suitcase on the back seat of the car. The woman, after hesitating a minute, had gone away from the garage, headed for the house. Parker backed the Oldsmobile out into the late sunlight, turned it around, saw the flash of orange hair in the living-room window, and drove away down the rutted road, easing the car slowly and carefully across the bumps and potholes. When he got to the blacktop road, he headed north. The Olds responded well. The upholstery was in rotten shape, the floor mats were chewed to pieces, and the paint job was all scratched up, but the engine purred nicely and the Olds leaped forward when he pressed the accelerator. He lit a cigarette, shifted position till he was comfortable, and headed north out of Georgia.