The Handle

by Donald E. Westlake

  The guy didn't know exactly what to do. He didn't want to get tough or rude with a customer, but he knew he was supposed to keep people away from here. He took another step forward, holding his arms out as though to keep Parker from seeing anything or getting by him, and said, “I'm sorry, but orders is orders. You got to go back to the casino.”

  “Sure,” said Parker. He turned away, taking the girl's arm, and when they'd walked out of earshot he said, “You get pictures?”

  “Four of them.”

  “We're done. You ready for another boat ride?”

  “Not really, but let's get it over with.”

  They had to wait in the boat ten minutes, with the girl getting more and more shaky the whole time, talking faster and louder, jabbering away like a disc jockey, and once again she shut up the second the boat pulled away from the dock and was silent the whole trip.

  There were three empty cabs parked along the curb near the pier entrance. As they came out, the girl, somewhat recovered again, said, “Come on along to my place, I'll develop these pictures right now. You can have them in an hour.”

  “Good.” Parker opened the door of the lead cab, and they got aboard. She gave a LaMarque address and they sat in silence as the cab headed for Galveston Bay and the Gulf Freeway.

  Her apartment was in a large modern elevator building with central air conditioning. He windows overlooked no view at all, but were large anyway. The living room was expensively and tastefully decorated, but with the sterility and lack of individuality of a display model.

  “Bar over there,” she said, pointing. “Just let me get this film started. You could make me a martini, if you would.”

  “Sure.”

  “Very very dry.”

  She went through the archway on the far side of the room, and Parker went over to the bar, a compact and expensive-looking piece of furniture in walnut. It included a miniature refrigerator containing mixers and an ice cube compartment and up above a wide assortment of bottles and glasses.

  Parker made the martini with the maximum of gin and the minimum of vermouth, and added an olive from a jar of them in the refrigerator. For himself he splashed some I. W. Harper over ice.

  Then he had nearly ten minutes to wait, and waiting was something he'd never learned how to do. He prowled the living room like a lion in a cage, this way and that, back and forth. He carried his drink and took occasional small bites from it.

  There were paintings on the walls, small ones, originals, abstracts with the primary color paints piled on thick and messy, the frames neat and plain and simple. They looked like things bought at an annual sidewalk art show; none of them distracted Parker from his pacing more than a few seconds.

  The furniture was bland, dull, pastel, straight out of a foam rubber store's show window, but quietly and discreetly and tastefully expensive. The carpeting, the wallpaper, the light fixtures and draperies, all showed the same grasp of fashion and the same total lack of individuality.

  This was much worse than waiting in a motel room or someplace like that. This place was dry but awkward, like a desert with green sand.

  Crystal, whatever her name was, came back in a bright print blouse and black stretch pants and flat shoes. “I just had to change,” she said. “I felt so stiff in that dress. My drink?”

  He was near the bar. He picked up her drink and handed it to her, and she said, “Thanks. Let me know when it's fifteen minutes, I'll have to go move the film from A to B.” She tasted the drink and raised her eyebrows to show delight. “Mmmm! You have a talent.”

  “How long before we get pictures?”

  “About an hour. Why, are you in a hurry to be off?” She smiled over her drink, showing white teeth, and batted her eyes a little.

  Parker shrugged. “No hurry,” he said. He turned away and went back over to the bar to refresh his drink.

  She followed him, saying, “I guess you're what they call the strong silent type. No idle chitchat, no passes, just business.”

  “That's right.”

  “But business is over tonight,” she said. She was standing very close behind him.

  He turned around. “When did they move you in here?”

  She was startled. “What?”

  “I figure three months ago,” he said. “Long enough so you've set up your darkroom, but not long enough to change anything in here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He said, “I figure Karns didn't send you after me, that's some local boy's idea. Karns is too smart for that.”

  She looked at him, frowning a bit now, studying him. She sipped at her martini and said, “Why? I'm the wrong type?”

  “You're the wrong information,” he told her. “I'll decide yes or no, and it's what the island looks like that says which it is. Karns could give me three women a night for a month and it would still be what the island looks like that would make me say yes or no about the job, and Karns is smart enough to know that.”

  She decided to be coldly insulted. “You think Mr. Karns gave me to you?”

  “No. I think some local bright boy did it and Karns'll talk to him when he hears about it.”

  “What if I tell you you're wrong? What if I tell you I was just sent along to take your pictures for you, and I got intrigued by you and curious about you, and I thought I might like to find out about you? What if I told you it was all my idea?”

  Parker said, “How much did that chair cost you?”

  “What chair?” She was annoyed at the change of subject.

  Parker pointed. “That one. How much?”

  “How do I know?” She looked at the chair and shook her head. “What difference does it make?”

  “The difference,” he said, “is this isn't an apartment, this is a crib.”

  “A what?”

  “Crib. It's a place where whores work.”

  “You—” She was insulted again, and this time it seemed more real. She stepped back a pace, saying, “I ought to throw this drink in your face.”

  “This isn't your apartment,” he said. “This is where you entertain for the Outfit.”

  “What a damn lie!”

  Parker shrugged. “You can send me the pictures,” he said. He drained his glass, put it down, and headed for the door.

  He was almost to it before she spoke, and then she sounded almost plaintive, all the anger and irritation gone: “Why did you do this? Why act this way? You didn't have to.”

  He wanted the pictures. He turned and said, “I think I did.” To get the pictures sooner, he'd talk to her, explain to her.

  She said, “If it wouldn't make any difference which way you decided about the other thing, then why not go ahead? You're putting something over, you're getting something for nothing.”

  “A prize,” he said. “A prize for being stupid. And I don't even have to be really stupid, I just have to play like I'm stupid.”

  “In other words,” she said, “it's pride. You thought you were being under-rated and it hurt your pride.”

  He shook his head. “Whores,” he said, “are for people without resources. I don't need you on your terms.”

  “Oh?” She frowned, studying him, and then she nodded and said, “Oh. All right. If that's the way — I suppose you've guessed I was supposed to phone in my report right after you left.”

  He nodded.

  “One minute,” she said. She crossed the room to the telephone, dialed a number, waited, and said, “Crystal here. He just left. No dice.” She waited again, looking at Parker, and said into the phone. “He tumbled, that's why. The apartment looked phony, and I guess I did it wrong myself.”

  Parker went over and took the phone away from her and listened, hearing a male voice say, “… won't need it. But I'm surprised at…” He handed it back, and she took over the conversation again, saying she was sorry a couple of times and then ending it.

  She cradled the phone and looked at Parker. “Do you want me to send the pictures or will you wait for them?
”

  “I'll wait for them.”

  “What were you drinking?”

  “Harper.”

  While she made him a fresh drink she said, “You know, I'm not conning you now. Do you know that?”

  He sat down on the sofa. “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Because,” he told her, “you can be sure you can't do anything about my yes or no, no matter what happens here. If I stay, if I go, no matter what, you won't have any reason to make another call.”

  She nodded. “That's right.” She came over and handed him his glass and sat down beside him. “That's right,” she said. She smiled; she had an elfin smile, a pixie smile. “And if now I told you it's just that I'm intrigued about you and curious about you, and I'd like to find out about you, what would you say?”

  The terms were better now. He put his drink down and reached for her.

  4

  He rolled over under the sheet and put his hand on her thigh and rubbed upward, putting some pressure in it, rubbing upward over her belly and breasts to her shoulder, then putting his hand back down to her thigh and rubbing upward once again. Her flesh was warm and dry and resilient.

  The second time he did it she made a moaning sound deep in her throat, and squirmed under his hand, and moved her arms in a lazy way. The third time, she opened her eyes as though surprised.

  “Oh!” she said. She blinked rapidly, and yawned, and stretched her arms up so her breasts were pulled taut. He stroked his hand across them and she laughed and said, “It's you! Good morning!”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “Oh? Oh! Oh, yes, of course…” She held her arms out to receive him. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.

  The pattern was changing here, but he understood why. His sexual appetite was cyclical, at its peak right after a job, waning slowly, disappearing entirely when he was involved in the planning and preparation of the next job. According to that pattern he should be having little or no interest in Crystal right now. But the usual pattern was based on his working only once or twice a year, and that was where the difference lay; the football stadium heist* had only taken place six weeks ago. He was working again so soon because of a combination of an unusual need for money and the timely request from Walter Karns. So, for one of the few times in his life, he was combining business with pleasure.

  As they were getting out of bed, she said, “Did you get an answer on your call yet?”

  He'd put in a call last night, after he'd looked over the pictures, to Grofield's contact. “No,” he said. “It's still too early.” Grofield mostly liked to sleep till noon.

  She said, “Does it mean you're going to do it? Making the call, does that mean—?”

  “Stop working,” he said.

  She no longer took offense with him. She just laughed and shook her head. “I'm not working, I'm curious. I want to know for myself.”

  “You're curious all the time.”

  “All right, never mind. May I ask what you want for breakfast?”

  “I don't care,” he said. “Whatever you make.” Food was functional with him, he didn't think about it. She said, “There's one thing I've got to say.”

  “Say it.”

  “I'd like you to stay here, as long as you want. But if you stay, I'll have to tell my boss, so he won't give me anything else to do.”

  Parker considered. It would take a week or two to get set up, and the choice was between here and the motel room. After he was more fully involved in the job the usual pattern might reassert itself, but until then this place had advantages over the motel. He said, “Tell your boss to have somebody pick up my stuff at the motel and bring it here.”

  “Good.”

  She made breakfast while he showered, and afterward they went back to bed for a while. Someone brought Parker's suitcase a little after ten and Crystal's nesting instinct took over. She had to unpack everything and stow everything away, and then she had to get dressed and take things down to the cleaners. While she was gone Parker looked over some of the pictures again — they were all first-rate black and white prints — and when she came back he took her clothing off and returned her to bed.

  The phone rang at eleven-thirty. They were sitting up, smoking cigarettes, and she reached to the bedside extension, spoke into it, and then passed the phone to Parker, saying, “It's for you. Thank him for not calling five minutes ago.”

  Parker said, “Hello.”

  “Was that a lady I heard, with that bedroom voice?”

  “Grofield?”

  “Talking to you is like having a chat with one of the statues on Easter Island. How are you, Parker?”

  It was Grofield, always amusing himself with his own dialogue. But he was a good man, reliable on a job and perfect for this one, Parker said, “There's an investment you might be interested in.”

  “Having just had a theater shot out from under me by the Philistines, I can tell you your statement is succinct and pithy but perhaps underplayed.”

  “You'll like this one. Unlimited front money and guaranteed return.”

  “Two impossibilities in one sentence. I'm intrigued.”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “This afternoon. I'm in New Orleans.”

  Parker gave him the address of Crystal's apartment, and Grofield said, “Full explanations when I get there, Parker, none of your bloody monosyllables.”

  “All right.”

  Parker gave the phone back to Crystal, thinking the explanation on this job would take a long time in the telling. But that was later. He stubbed out his cigarette and said, “Better leave the phone off the hook.”

  * * *

  *The Seventh, Pocket Book edition 50244.

  5

  It was hard to tell where the explanation should start. This job had come along because of Parker's connection with the Outfit, which was what the organized rackets boys were calling themselves these days, so maybe the beginning of the explanation was how Parker first got involved with the Outfit.

  Parker and the Outfit had one thing in common; they both worked outside the law. But the Outfit lived on gambling and narcotics and prostitution, the Outfit lived by finding customers for illegal products and services, and Parker simply went where money was and took it away. He scored once or twice a year, almost always institutional robberies — banks, payrolls, jewelry stores, armored cars — and almost always with a group of three or four other professionals in the same line of work. The personnel of the group would change from job to job, depending on who was lining up the string and what the operation required. Over the last nineteen years Parker had worked with about a hundred different men.

  One of these men, Mal Resnick, had worked a doublecross in a job with Parker, and had used Parker's share to pay back an old debt to the Outfit. Parker had caught up with Resnick and settled accounts, but he'd had to exert pressure to get his money back from the Outfit.* A man named Bronson had been running the Outfit then, and when Bronson had insisted on trying to have Parker killed, Parker had worked an arrangement with the man in line to succeed Bronson, a guy named Walter Karns. Parker had eliminated Bronson, and Karns had called off the feud.*

  Now he had heard from Karns again, a roundabout message asking only that Parker meet with Karns in Las Vegas. The message had included plane fare and had hinted at a large amount of money, so Parker went.

  They met in a hotel suite on the Strip; it was their first meeting face to face. They were both big men, Parker thirty-eight and Karns ten or fifteen years older. The difference between them was that Parker looked to be made of chunks of wood, while Karns had a meaty padded look to him, like a wrestler gone to seed.

  ‘The situation is simple,” Karns said. “We've got a competitor and we don't like competitors. Mostly we take care of competitors ourselves, but this is an unusual case. It's so unusual I've decided maybe we ought to ask you to take care of the problem for us.”

  “I don't kill for hire,” Parker told
him.

  “Don't I know that? Don't I have boys who do, a payroll choked with them? No, Parker, I don't want you for a job I could get done better by any one of a dozen people on my own payroll. I want you for the kind of job you do best, I want you for your specialty. I want you to rob this competition, I want you to clean him out, strip him to the bone, leave him naked.”

  “Why?”

  Karn shrugged. “Because there's no other way we can get at him.”

  “Why not?”

  “Now you're asking the question, now you've touched on the main point. What is it that makes this problem unique? Did you ever hear of the island of Cockaigne?”

  “No.”

  “It's in the Gulf of Mexico, off the Texas coast, about forty or fifty miles south of Galveston. Up till six years ago it was deserted, nobody on it, nothing there anybody wanted. Nobody owned it. It's forty miles from the United States and about two hundred and thirty from Mexico, but neither one of them ever wanted it bad enough to stake a claim. It was such a nothing the Seabees didn't even build an airfield on it in the Second World War, which makes it almost the only one they missed.”

  Karns pulled at his gin and tonic. “Then,” he said, “along came a guy named Baron. Wolfgang Baron, that's what he calls himself. He showed up on the island with nothing but time and money. He hired construction crews out of Galveston to come out and build him a casino and some other buildings, and when the Feds took a look at him it turned out Cuba had just finished going through the paperwork at the UN and the island was theirs. So the Galveston construction crews quit on him, and he brought Mexican crews up from Matamoros instead and they finished the job. When everything was done he called the place Cockaigne, because it never even had a name before, and he opened for business.”

  Karns finished his drink and hollered. A sallow young guy in a black suit came in from another room and made fresh drinks for both Karns and Parker; then he went out again.

  Karns said, “You ever hear this name before, Cockaigne?”

  Parker shook his head.