The Handle

by Donald E. Westlake

  The part of the island Parker had seen so far had no beach, no cove, no pier, no place at all for a boat to come in to shore. Tangled trees and undergrowth clogged the ground right down to the shoreline, and vines and branches overhung the water. The half dozen or so cottages scattered along the slope were all half hidden by the foliage. From not very far away the island would look both uninhabited and uninviting.

  The guy at the wheel said, “They're still watching us.”

  “As we do,” Yancy told him, “what I announced we would do. Don't worry about it.”

  They had started now to make their swing around the island. In close against the island lay the little boat, in the island's shadow, nearly invisible except for the white T-shirts of the three guys who were sitting in there watching.

  The island kept looking empty and grim as they went around, until they reached the section exactly opposite the part they'd seen while coming out. Here was the main building, a huge sprawling two-story red brick affair fronted by thick white pillars. Two long piers jutted out into the water, and between them bobbed half a dozen boats like the one Parker was aboard. Careful rock gardens flanked the slate paths up from the piers to the main building, which looked most like an old southern plantation, except that it was practically bare of window.

  Yancy said, “The cockfight pit's behind the main building; you can't see it from here. Baron lives in the main building, most of the people that work for him live in that building on the left.”

  The building on the left was also brick, also two stories high, but plain and functional in design and containing a normal amount of window.

  Parker said, “So far, this is the only place we could land.”

  Yancy nodded. “That's right. Baron cleaned out a channel here.”

  “So we couldn't land anyplace else.”

  “That's right.”

  Parker shook his head. “Bad.”

  This time, Yancy said nothing.

  The guy at the wheel said, “They're following us.”

  Parker looked behind them, and the little boat was in their wake, but keeping back.

  Yancy said, “Ignore them. Go on around.”

  They went on around the island, and there was nothing else to see. To east and west and south the Gulf of Mexico stretched to the horizon and beyond. To the north the coast was a gray smudge.

  Parker said, “Head back.”

  Yancy gestured with the bottle. “Well? What do you think?”

  Parker shook his head.

  “It's worth the trouble,” Yancy told him.

  “Maybe.”

  A helicopter passed over, coming from the east and heading west. The guy at the wheel squinted up at it: “Is that them, too?”

  Yancy laughed. “What, Baron's boys? That's the Navy, U.S. Navy. You think Baron's got helicopters?”

  “How should I know?”

  Parker was watching aft. The trio in the little boat had dropped out of sight, losing interest. The island again looked empty and uninviting.

  Yancy stretched and said, “We'll be back in less than an hour.”

  Parker looked out toward shore, but they were still too far away to make out any details. Galveston was up that way, ahead of them, but it couldn't be seen yet. Parker turned away and went back down into the cabin. He put his tie and suitcoat on and sat down to wait.

  Yancy came down, smiling, easy, relaxed. He sat on the sofa and said, “Well? What do you think?”

  “I haven't made up my mind.”

  “Mr. Karns would be very happy if you thought yes.”

  Parker looked at him. “Karns doesn't threaten me. Didn't he tell you that?”

  Yancy waved glass and bottle. “Wrong, wrong! No threat, just a comment.”

  Parker went over to the bar and made himself a drink. “I don't have enough yet,” he said. “I need more before I can make up my mind.”

  “Name it.”

  “I want a map of the island. Buildings, paths, landing places, everything.”

  “It can be arranged.”

  “And I want a list of personnel. How many, which of them live on the island, what each man's job is, how many of them are heeled, what kind of weapons they got on the island and how many.”

  “That'll take a little longer.”

  “But it can be done,” Parker said.

  Yancy nodded. “It can be done.” He smiled again, and motioned with the glass. “One thing I know. Some nights, the handle in that place is a quarter million bucks.”

  Parker shrugged. It didn't matter how much was there; what counted was how possible it was to take it and leave with it.

  He sat down and waited for Galveston.

  2

  Parker opened the door and Yancy came in, smiling, well dressed, light on his feet. He carried a tan calfskin attaché case, and he looked like an insurance salesman wearing an ape mask. The ape mask opened its smiling mouth and said, “Greetings, I've got it.”

  Beyond the door the sun beat down white and hot. Parker was staying at a motel on Broadway in Galveston while looking things over and making up his mind. It wasn't the motel he would have chosen for himself, but the reservation had been made for him by Yancy or someone else in Walter Karn's organization; the organization was paying his expenses.

  Parker shut the door against the sunlight, leaving the room cool and dim. In the corner the air conditioner hummed to itself. The room looked a lot like the cabin of the boat he was out on yesterday.

  Yancy stood in the middle of the room looking around, jiggling his right arm so the attaché case tapped against the side of his knee. “Drink?” he said. “Cold and wet?”

  “Don't have any,” Parker told him. He itched when he was around steady drinkers; they were unpredictable and unreliable.

  Yancy said, “Bad business.” He tossed the attaché case on one of the twin beds, went over to the telephone, and stood with it to his ear for a minute. He smiled at Parker, and his right foot tapped on the rug.

  “Ah!” he said, into the phone. “This is room twenty-seven. Send me a boy, would you, dear? A million thanks.” He cradled the phone and made a gesture of amiable helplessness, saying to Parker, “One of my minor vices. You understand.”

  Parker shrugged. Understanding had nothing to do with it; he didn't give a damn, that was all. Yancy wasn't his problem. He motioned at the attaché case. “Let's see it.”

  “Oh, let's not hurry. Wait till I fortify.” Yancy smiled agreeably, twisting his hood's face into an expression it wasn't equipped for, and said, “This is faster service than you expected anyway. Yesterday afternoon on the boat you told me what you wanted, and this afternoon I bring it.”

  There was a knock at the door. Yancy raised a hand. “There he is.” He went over and opened the door and told the boy there, “Jack Daniels, a fifth. You”ll pick it up for me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yancy gave him money. “And a bucket of ice. Do it in under five minutes and the change is yours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yancy's smile was the same for everybody; Parker, the bellboy, the three guys yesterday in the other boat. Now he turned it on Parker again and said, “Well, what do you think of Galveston?”

  Parker shook his head. He was no good at small talk, because he had no interest in it.

  Yancy kept trying. “You haven't seen the night life around here? No? Well, you haven't missed much. Houston's just fifty miles away, of course. Have you been up there?”

  Parker turned his back on him, went over to the bed, and picked up the attaché case.

  Yancy said, “Not that Houston's so — what are you doing?”

  Parker carried the attaché case over to the writing desk, set it down, opened the snaps.

  Yancy came over, looking aggrieved, trying to see the funny side of life, saying, “You're in a hell of a hurry, aren't you?”

  Parker said, “You want to go out and come in again? I'll wait. Just don't come in here and stand around.”

&n
bsp; The hail-fellow expressions drained off Yancy's face one by one, as though they'd been painted on in water color and he was standing in the rain. What was left was hard and humorless. “I was told,” he said, and all the pretty music was missing from his voice now, too, “I was told to cooperate with you, give you all the help I could, and treat you with kid gloves. I do what I'm told. That's the smart way, do what you're told. But don't push me. Don't push me so far I forget to be smart.”

  Parker had opened the attaché case. Now he shut it again. “The deal's off. You tell Karns he sent the wrong boy around.”

  “Wait a second,” Yancy said. “Wait a second.”

  “I got no time,” Parker told him, “To sell you insurance, play buddies with you, smile, small talk, how's the weather? I'm here on business.”

  “We all are,” Yancy said, but he seemed less sure of himself.

  “I got to have full attention,” Parker told him, “on what's in front of me. I can't be worried about you behind me, do you feel well, have you got your bottle, did somebody hurt your feelings?”

  “There's a certain civilized procedure,” Yancy said. He was flicking in and out of his two characterizations like a candle flame guttering in a wind. “There's a certain civilized way to do things.

  “Not here.”

  They stood looking at each other. Parker didn't necessarily want out of this deal: he didn't know enough about it yet to tell if it was workable or not. But if he couldn't get Yancy squared away he'd quit it now. There was no reason to add unnecessary complications. As they stood there, a knock sounded at the door. Yancy started, then shook his head and said, “My bottle. The boy's fast.” He seemed grateful for the interruption.

  Parker waited. Yancy went over and opened the door and the boy came in carrying a brown paper bag and a plastic ice bucket. He set them on the table near the door, and Yancy, looking at his watch, said, “Four and a half minutes. The change is yours.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Parker said, “Boy.”

  “Sir?”

  “How long you work here?”

  “Almost three years, sir.”

  “Any guest here ever hurt your feelings?”

  Yancy turned his head and looked at Parker. He and the boy both looked baffled. The boy said, “Sir?”

  Parker said, “Somebody wants something, ice or a bottle or carry some luggage. They tell you what they want, they don't say please, they're in a hurry, they don't pay you any mind. That hurt your feelings?”

  The boy shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  The boy looked baffled again. He glanced at Yancy, then looked back at Parker and spread his hands. “Because I work here, I guess, sir.”

  “You just say, ‘Yes, sir.’”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Parker turned to Yancy. “You got it?”

  Yancy made an ironic face. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Give the kid another dollar.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Yancy gave the baffled boy a dollar and closed the door after him. He turned to Parker: “You make a strong moral.”

  “I'm here to look over a job,” Parker told him. “That's all, just a job. Not to make pen pals.”

  Yancy pointed at the bottle. “That won't bother you,” he said. “I don't let it get out of hand.”

  It was time to unbend a little. Parker knew he had Yancy squared away, and the thing to do now was ride out of it and get back to work with no rumpled feelings. He said, “Glass in the bathroom.”

  Yancy smiled, the old alumnus smile again. “And for you?”

  “Small one.”

  While Yancy went off to get the glasses, Parker opened the attaché case again and took from it a stack of papers. He closed the case, put it on the floor, sat down, and began to spread the papers out on the writing table. Yancy came back with two glasses, put ice and whiskey in them, came across the room, and set one glass down beside Parker's right hand. “Everything you asked for” he said, motioning at the papers. He sounded proud of himself.

  One of the papers was a hand-drawn map, on a large sheet of heavy paper that, when opened out, covered the whole surface of the writing desk. The name “COCKAIGNE” had been written across the top, and below it was the island, shaped somewhat like a rubber life raft, with the long dimension running east and west. Whoever had drawn the map had gone to a lot of medieval trouble, drawing tiny buildings on the island, drawing rows of waves and pretty fish jumping out in the ocean, drawing a complex arrow and letter N to show which way was north, even putting a few tiny trees in along the northern shore of the island to show it was all wild there.

  This was the trouble with the Outfit, the organization run by Walter Karns. The Outfit had a lot of manpower, a lot of talent, but like every organization on both sides of the law it was so big it sometimes ran for the sake of running, like a man tromping an automobile accelerator to the floor when the gear shift is in neutral; the engine runs fine but the ca#r isn't going anywhere.

  The same with this drawing. He'd asked for a map and they gave him a souvenir.

  Yancy said, the pride still in his voice, “Well? What do you think of it?”

  “Where's the frame?”

  “What? Oh, oh yeah, I see what you mean.” Yancy laughed a little doubtfully. “Our man kind of got enthusiastic,” he said.

  “Did he put everything in the right place?” Parker said. “That's the point.”

  “He's got everything, every detail. You got nothing to worry about there.”

  Parker pointed at the main building and the living quarters to the left of it. “How far are they apart? What's the scale on this map?”

  “Oh,” said Yancy. “Oh, for that you want the other map.”

  “The other map.”

  Yancy rooted through the papers and came up with a standard-size sheet of graph paper. On it was another rendering of the island, this one simple, bare, and neat. Buildings were shown by numbered rectangles, with a key in the lower right. A notation below this key stated that one square on the graph equaled one thousand feet. Another notation said that the island was forty-seven point three miles from Galveston, and thirty-six point eight miles from the nearest land just north of Surfside, forty miles south of Galveston.

  Yancy said, “Is that more like it?”

  “Here.” Parker gathered up the other map in one hand, crumpling it some, and handed it to Yancy.

  “This was supposed to give you more of a picture of the place,” Yancy said, defending it.

  “I've seen the place,” Parker told him. “Sit down and drink.”

  Yancy sat down. Parker studied the map.

  There were fourteen buildings on the island, ranging in size from the large main building by the two piers along the southern edge of the island to the six tiny cottages on the northern slope. In addition to these, there was the building housing employees, and the small building where cock-fights were staged, plus two storage sheds up the slope behind these buildings and the power plant at the top of the island, and finally two small boathouses to the west of the piers, around behind the employees” living quarters.

  The boathouses interested Parker. They meant there was a second point where a boat could be brought to shore, away from the exposed main piers. If the operation turned out to be workable, that might come in handy.

  He put the map aside and looked at the rest of the papers. On three sheets were listed the names and duties of every employee on the island, plus whether or not they were normally armed and whether or not they lived on the island.

  Baron had a large staff working his island; thirty-eight men and eight women. The casino had a staff of fifteen men, four of whom were armed. A chef, four waiters, a bus-boy, and a dishwasher, seven in all, staffed the dining room in the main building. Six men, four of them armed, operated the cockpit. Eight men, four of them armed, operated Baron's fleet of small boats, bringing the customers out from the mainland. Two armed men served as Baron
's assistants, adjutants, and bodyguards. Six women were available for specialized cottage service, and two other women worked as maids. In all, including Baron himself, there were forty-seven names on the list.

  Of the forty-seven, only seventeen lived permanently on the island itself. Aside from Baron and his two bodyguards, these included the four armed men who worked in the casino, the four armed boatmen, and the six cottage women. Even with everyone else gone, then, there would be eleven armed men on the island at all times.

  Other papers gave further information about Baron's empire. It was estimated that between seventy and eighty per cent of Baron's customers came to the island in their own boats, some from as far away as New Orleans and Corpus Christi. For the rest, Baron maintained four fairly large cabin cruisers, each with a crew of two, to shuttle customers from and to Galveston. Two of these boats, manned by the unarmed shore-living boatmen, were based in Galveston, and the two manned by the armed island-living boatmen were based on Cockaigne.

  The weapons available on the island were listed on another sheet, and it was an impressive list; rifles and handguns enough to start a revolution, plus tear gas shells and a couple of machine guns.

  One page described the approaches to the island. Submerged rocks and reefs, plus steel and concrete additions by Baron, made it impossible to bring a boat of any draft at all in close to shore anywhere except at two points; the main piers in front of the casino, and the boathouses just to the west of the piers.

  There were further sheets of facts which Parker either already knew or didn't care about; statistics on numbers of customers, estimated total of money on the island at different times of day and different days of the week and different seasons of the year, police records of Baron's employees. Parker leafed through these, saw there was nothing else of value, and turned to Yancy. “All right,” he said. “So far, it doesn't look impossible.”

  Yancy had been sitting in moody silence on the edge of one of the beds. Now he perked up, stood up, said: “That's good, that's good. Mister Karns will like that.”

  “So far,” Parker repeated.

  Yancy was his normal self again, glass in right hand, bottle in left hand, smile on face. He said, “You want something else? Whatever I can do.”