The Handle

by Donald E. Westlake

  Humboldt said, “I'm alive, ain't I?”

  “Sure you are.” Yancy laughed and pulled one of the other chairs out from the card table and sat down. Motioning to Parker to take the third chair, at Humboldt's left, he said, “Humboldt don't walk any more, he weighs too much. He's tired all the time, and his mouth burns from all the weeds, and his stomach gives him a lot of trouble, but he's alive. That's the word he uses for it, alive. Isn't that right, Humboldt?”

  Humboldt said, “I'm stayin’ alive to give you pleasure, Yancy, that's the only reason.” The cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth, he seemed more at ease and with less of a whine in his voice.

  The bartender came in then with a bottle and two glasses. Humboldt shouted, “Get that garbage out of here!”

  The bartender looked flustered. He said, “Yancy told me—”

  “He wants to drink,” Humboldt said, “he can go to the bar.”

  Yancy waved his arm, saying, “Humboldt, you're in a room full of the stuff. What's with you?”

  “You and your booze get out of here, that's all.”

  Yancy shrugged and turned to Parker. “You need me right away?”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Eddie.”

  Yancy and the bartender left. Humboldt said to Parker, “You want to go with him, come back when you're full?”

  Parker said, “I'm here to buy guns.”

  In a different tone, Humboldt said, “You were with Yancy, I figured you were like him.”

  There was nothing to say to that. Parker waited.

  Humboldt made a small gesture with his right hand, brushing something away. “You want guns,” he said. “No drink, no cigarettes, no conversation, just guns.”

  There was still nothing to say.

  Humboldt shook his head. “You and Yancy,” he said. “Opposite sides of the same coin. What sort of guns you want?”

  “Four handguns, any kind. Two machine guns. Four hand grenades.”

  “Hand grenades? They didn't say nothing about hand grenades.”

  Parker said, “You people hustle around too fast out here.”

  “What is that, sarcasm? You want hand grenades, I got to make a phone call.”

  Parker took one of Yancy's cigarettes and lit it. Humboldt looked at him, as though waiting for something, and then shook his head and pushed himself to his feet. He was a lot heavier than he'd looked sitting down; most of the weight had sagged below the waist, front and back. He said, “Come on along. They may want to talk to you.”

  Parker went with him, across the hall and into the office on the other side. This was a smaller room, full of office furniture. Humboldt sat at the desk and made his call. Parker leaned against the wall, ignoring the conversation, until Humboldt extended the phone toward him, saying, “He wants to talk to you.”

  Parker took it and said, “What is it?” The voice was one he didn't recognize. It said, “What the hell you want with hand grenades?”

  “What's your name?”

  “Larris.”

  “Larris, you the guy sent Crystal to play games with me?”

  “What's that got to do with hand grenades?”

  Parker said, “Larris, you're a moron. You fuss around me once more, I let Karns know what a moron you are.” Larris was trying to say something, but Parker wouldn't let him. He said, “I don't even want to be reminded of you, Larris. Now, listen. I'm going to explain something to you for the first and last time. Karns wants that island leveled. I'm not going to level it with my hands.” He tossed the phone to Humboldt, who bobbled it but finally caught it, and leaned against the wall again.

  Humboldt looked worried as he put the phone to his ear. “It's me, Mr. Larris,” he said. “Humboldt.” He talked some more, the whine strong in his voice, and Parker didn't listen.

  When the conversation was done, Humboldt got heavily to his feet again and said, “Well, you get your hand grenades.”

  “I know.”

  “You,” Humboldt said. “You're a hand grenade yourself.”

  They went back to the storeroom and Humboldt led the way down an aisle walled with cases of liquor. “Handguns,” Humboldt said. At the end of the aisle he studied the labels on the cases for a minute, then tugged at one and the cardboard side opened like a flap, showing three quarts of Philadelphia whiskey and some cardboard dividers. “Rotten stuff,” Humboldt said to himself, and took the three bottles out. He bent over with a grunt and put the bottles on the floor, then pulled out the cardboard dividers, and past the first row of three bottles there weren't any bottles in the case at all. The interior had been lined with wood, to support the weight of the cases piled on top of it, and the hollow space was filled with smallish packages wrapped in rags.

  Humboldt took one of the packages out, turned and turned it in his hands to unwind the rag, and inside was a revolver, a .32 Colt Detective Special with a two-inch barrel. He handed it to Parker, saying, “Used twice. No complaints.”

  It felt all right. The front sight had been taken off and identification marks had been filed away. It had a new smell to it and a solid feel, though a little small for Parker's hand.

  The second gun Humboldt handed him was another of the same. “Used once,” Humboldt said. The two guns were almost identical, though the removal of the front sight was a cleaner job on the first one.

  Parker put these two on the floor, and Humboldt handed him a third, completely different from the first two. This was an automatic, a 9mm. Beretta Brigadier, much bigger than the Specials, heavier, a mean-looking machine. It was scratched up along the barrel and the grip was cracked in two places.

  Parker said, “This one's no good.”

  “Don't you believe it,” Humboldt said. “It's been used a dozen times out of here and everybody loves it. One kid, he asks for it every time, he's had it himself four times now.”

  Parker handed it back. “Save it for him,” he said. “I'm not bringing these back.”

  “What? Nobody told me anything like that.”

  “Don't make any more phone calls,” Parker said. “Larris won't like it.”

  Humboldt looked up at Parker's face. “It's your business,” he said. He took the Beretta back, rolled it in its rag again, and stuffed it back into its cache. He fumbled around in there a minute, brought out another bundle, and this time unrolled another revolver, a five-shot S&W .38 Special Bodyguard, a hammerless model that could only be fired double-action. The rear of the gun, above the grip, had a naked hunchbacked look with its curve of plain metal where the hammer would be.

  Parker said, “You want to get rid of this one.”

  “There's nothing wrong with it. We check them every time they come back, fire them, clean them. A bad gun doesn't go back in here.”

  Parker shrugged. The revolver looked all right. He put it on the floor with the other two.

  Humboldt poked in the case a while and came out with a Colt .38 Super automatic. “This is a good one,” he said. “This is a first-class good one.”

  Parker took it and it felt good. He turned his hand back and forth, holding the gun, and the weight was good, the feeling was good. “All right,” he said. “That's four.”

  “Now you want two machine guns. Tommys I can't give you, but I got two Jugoslav-made Sten guns, they're old but they're reliable. You want to see them?”

  “No. I'll take your word for it.”

  Humboldt smiled; that pleased him. He said, “Now, about hand grenades. That's what they call in the department stores a special order. When you gonna want this stuff?”

  “Within a week.”

  “By Friday,” said Humboldt. “That all right?” Parker nodded. “Good.”

  “You want to take any of the stuff with you now, or get it all at once?”

  “Leave it all together,” Parker said. “I'll get word through Yancy where it should be delivered.”

  “That's good. Now, I don't expect to see any of this stuff again, is that right? Not even the Sten guns?”


  “Nothing,” Parker said.

  Humboldt shrugged. “If that's the way it is, that's the way it is. Would you help me…”

  He meant the liquor bottles. He didn't want to have to bend over for them. Parker picked them up and handed them to him, and Humboldt put everything back the way it was.

  Walking back down the aisle, Parker in the lead, Humboldt said, “You got to excuse me thinking you were like Yancy. You come in with him and all.”

  “Sure.”

  They got to the card table and Humboldt sat down with a sigh. He lit a fresh cigarette from Yancy's pack and put the rest of the pack in his pocket. He reached for the playing cards and started in on his solitaire game again.

  Parker went out to the bar, where Yancy was draped. Yancy saw him coming and said, “There's my pal! Have a drink.”

  “Not now.”

  “You wanna go look at boats now?”

  “No.” The man who'd run the boat could pick one better than Parker.

  Yancy said, “Well, it's time to go then.” To the bartender he said, “Mind if I take the bottle, Eddie?”

  “Just so you don't let no cop see you.” The bartender explained to Parker, “All we're supposed to sell in here is setups.”

  Parker said to Yancy, “Give me the car keys.”

  “What? I can drive, don't you worry about me.”

  Parker snapped his fingers. “Give me the keys.”

  Yancy straightened up on his stool. Then he laughed and said, “Yes, sir,” and handed Parker the keys to the Thunderbird. To the bartender he said, “This is the toughest buddy I got.”

  Parker went out to the car and Yancy trailed along behind him, bottle in one hand and glass in the other. They got into the car and pulled away, Parker making a U-turn and retracing the route to the Freeway.

  When they were up on the Freeway and headed south, Yancy said, “You ever been in Houston before?”

  “No.”

  “Then you done pretty good.” Yancy poured a fresh drink. “When our work is all finished, you and I,” he said, “we're going to have a nice long discussion about events and things.”

  Parker glanced at him. Yancy was smiling and cold-eyed. Parker said, “When the job is done, I'll discuss anything you want, Yancy.”

  “Yeah,” said Yancy. He nodded, slowly, continuously. “That's right,” he said.

  3

  Grofield opened the door to Parker's knock. “Salsa's here,” he said. “And a man to be our Charon.”

  “A what?”

  “Someone to operate the boat.”

  “Oh.” Parker went on into the living room where the other two men were.

  Salsa got to his feet, smiling, his hand out. “Hello, Parker,” he said. “Good to see you again.”

  “Hello, Salsa.”

  Salsa was a tall, slender, dark-haired man with gleaming white teeth, gleaming dark eyes, and the baby-face look of a gigolo. He'd been a gigolo once, and a professional revolutionary once, and a ballroom dancer once, and a lot of other things once. Now he said to Parker, “You're handling this job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it's a good one.”

  Parker turned to the other man, a chunky beetling Irish type with dead white skin and dead black hair. Parker said, “You know boats?”

  “Like I know how to breathe.”

  Parker turned and looked at Grofield. Grofield laughed and said, “He's a lyrical type, don't worry about it. He comes very highly recommended.”

  “By who?”

  “Wymerpaugh.”

  “Yeah?” Parker turned back. “I'm Parker,” he said. “I presumed as much. The name's Heenan.”

  “What were you sent up for?”

  Heenan blinked, and his mouth dropped open. “What's that?”

  “You haven't been out a week,” Parker told him.

  “How in God's name did you know that?”

  “Boatmen are out in the sun a lot. They burn, they peel, they tan. Especially their foreheads. You're as white as a fish.”

  Heenan touched his hand to his forehead. “I'll burn,” he said. “You're right, man, I'll burn like the condemned in Hell.”

  Parker said, “What were you up for?”

  Heenan gestured with his hands, brushing things away. “A little problem,” he said. “A minor peccadillo. I'm no longer afflicted.”

  “What was it?”

  Heenan looked pained. He glanced at Grofield, at Salsa, back at Parker. He made a gesture as though to make unimportant what he was about to say, and he said, “It was what they call a sex offense.”

  “A sex offense.”

  “There was this girl they said wasn't eighteen, and in truth—”

  “A sex offense,” said Parker. “How old was she?”

  Heenan cleared his throat. “Uhh, eleven.”

  Parker said, “How long were you in?”

  “Five years, three months.”

  “Out of how much?”

  “Fourteen years the judge gave me.”

  “So you're on parole. You reporting where you are, like they want?”

  “Not me. Them big doors opened, I left.” Parker said. “Wait in the kitchen. I want to talk to these two guys.”

  Heenan said, “I'm cured of all that, I really am. There was a doctor at the prison, he—”

  “I'm not looking for a baby-sitter,” Parker told him. “You don't have to convince me.”

  “Oh. Yeah, sure. I'll, uh, I'll just go”

  Heenan trailed away toward the kitchen, and when he was gone Parker said, “That's the kind of guy blows a whole job wide open.”

  Salsa said, “I think we need somebody else.” He had a quiet, polite, gentle voice and a manner to match.

  Parker said to Grofield, “What did Wymerpaugh say about him?”

  “I just asked for a boatman, Wymerpaugh says try Heenan. He didn't say anything about all this.” Grofield seemed not only surprised but also insulted.

  Salsa said, “He knows things now.”

  Parker frowned. “How much?”

  Salsa checked it off: “Our names. That we're setting up a local operation and it needs a boat.”

  “That's all?”

  Salsa looked a question at Grofield, and Grofield nodded. “That's all,” he said. “We were leaving the orientation lecture up to you.”

  Parker said, “Then we can dust him with no trouble. Grofield, that's you.”

  “Because I brought him.” Grofield sighed and shrugged his shoulders and said, “Right you are, as ever.” He went on into the kitchen.

  Salsa said, “Your woman got a telephone call, she had to go out. She said she'd be back early this evening.”

  Parker nodded. He wasn't thinking about Crystal, he was thinking about the job; they still had to find a boatman.

  “Very good, that woman of yours,” Salsa said, as he might have said something pleasant and admiring about a friend's new car. “She wishes to photograph me unclad.”

  Parker said, “We've got to find somebody. I'll call Handy McKay, maybe he knows somebody.”

  Grofield came out of the kitchen, leading Heenan. Grofield was an actor all the way through, and now he was playing the role of a cheerful amiable junior executive, giving to some lost nudnick the discreet bum's rush. “You see the position,” he was saying, his arm draped over Heenan's shoulders. “No hard feelings.”

  Heenan was looking confused and not yet sore. He'd get sore later, some time after Grofield finished sending him away.

  Salsa said to Parker, “Would you mind?”

  Parker watched Grofield and Heenan go by. Distracted, he said, “Mind? Mind what?”

  “If I permit your woman to photograph me unclad.”

  Parker shook his head, not thinking about that. “What do I care?” he said. He went over to the telephone, and Grofield smilingly shut the door behind Heenan,

  4

  Parker rolled over, waking up, and the doorbell sounded again. Crystal was out; Grofield and Salsa were in th
e motel rooms being paid for by the Outfit. It was ten in the morning and Parker had been up till after three making his phone calls, waiting for answers, following leads and hints and suggestions, and still he had nobody to operate the boat.

  He got up from the bed and stepped into his clothing and headed for the front door. The bell rang twice more in the time it took to dress and get there. He opened the door and it was a mistake.

  Two guys outside had the flat broad look of Federal law. They were wearing dark suits with narrow lapels and dark hats with narrow brims. One of them carried a briefcase. They both had flat bony faces and expressionless eyes and prominent cheekbones. One of them said, “Speak to you, Mr. Parker,” and they both bundled into the room.

  Parker didn't like being at a disadvantage and these two had pushed into control from the outset. Pushing back was no good in this case; the way to get hold of the reins was pull in the direction they were pushing.

  He shut the door after them and turned away, saying, “Making coffee. You can sit in the living room and wait.”

  “We'll come along with you.”

  “Sure. Come on.”

  They all went into the kitchen and he started water boiling for instant coffee. The other two sat at the kitchen table and while Parker got out the jar of coffee and three cups the guy with the briefcase said, in an easy, conversational tone of voice, “What is your real handle, Mr. Parker?”

  “Parker, just like you said.”

  “Is it? Under the name Kasper, Arnold Kasper, you're wanted in California for the murder of a prison farm guard.”

  Parker said, “That's somebody else. How do you like your coffee?”

  “Just black is fine for me. My partner takes a little sugar in his. You are also known as Charles Willis, and under that name you are wanted for two murders in Nebraska.”

  Parker said, “Wrong man. I never been in Nebraska.” He put the cups and the sugar bowl and three spoons on the table.

  “Under the name you claim as your own,” the guy with the briefcase said, “you are alleged to have been involved in eight major robberies over the past eleven years. The number may be higher, of course, but eight we know about.”