Butcher's Moon p-16

by Richard Stark

  In fast; he’d done this work before. Palming three of the keys, he poked the fourth one at the lock in the doorknob. When it failed to work, he dropped it after only one try, inserting a second key in the lock before the first one clinked against the concrete. Number two worked; letting the others also fall from his hand, he turned the knob and pushed, while at the same time slipping out the revolver with his left hand, moving quickly into the room.

  A darkened room: drapes closed over the windows front and back. Two light sources: the expanding and contracting trapezoid of sunlight from the doorway, lying across an unslept-in double bed strewn with hurriedly removed clothing, and a ribbon of indirect electric lighting from the slightly open bathroom door midway in the right wall. Abadandi closed the door behind himself, swiftly and silently, while registering the sound of a shower running in the bathroom and a tuneless voice raised in song: “‘If I did-int caaaaaare, more than words can saaaaaaay—’“

  Abadandi stood with his back to the door, looking around the room. He was right-handed, but he’d trained himself a long time ago to be left-handed with the gun, partly so he’d be able to use it with either hand and partly because most people expected a gun to come from the other side, and any edge at all was a help.

  The room was empty, mostly dark, with only the bathroom light-spill, and obviously only tenanted by one man. Was that the idea? One of them here, one of them somewhere else.

  Maybe he should pull back out again, wait for the guy to move, trail him till he made his next meet with his partner.

  No. Separate was better. The partner could be found, that wouldn’t be any trouble. A bird in the hand.

  Abadandi moved forward, his silent shoes doubly silent on the room’s wall-to-wall carpeting. He went around the foot of the bed, looking at the sliding doors of the closet to the left, one side open to show empty hangers on the rod and one small suitcase closed on the floor. The mark didn’t intend to stay here long.

  The air near the bathroom door was increasingly moist and steamy. Abadandi did some rapid blinking, to moisten his contact lenses, and reached his right hand forward till the palm was resting gently against the beaded wet surface of the door. The door opened inward to the right, and the sounds of shower and singing came from the right, behind the door. Abadandi held the gun out in front of himself with his left hand, took a small step closer to the door to brace himself for the rush, and sensed a sudden breeze of movement behind his back.

  He turned, looking over his left shoulder, and the guy coming from the closet was already halfway across the room, moving low and fast. Abadandi had a split second to think, He’s looking at my eyes, not at the gun, and that means he’s as professional as I am.

  The singing went on in the shower. Abadandi brought the gun around fast, but he’d started too late and there was no way to catch up. The guy dove, flat and low, his right hand going for Abadandi’s left wrist, his head and left shoulder thumping into Abadandi’s midsection, bouncing him at an angle into the door and the wall.

  Abadandi wasn’t a fool; he didn’t pull the trigger unless the gun was aiming at something useful, and the hand on his wrist was keeping him from bringing the Trailsman around into play. So he forgot the gun, and concentrated on the weapons he still had available: his right hand, his legs, his head. He was trying to knee the guy even before his back hit the door, and though that first impact knocked the breath out of him, he still managed one good rabbit punch on the back of the guy’s neck before the guy dropped down and sideways, pressing his side and back against Abadandi to pin him to the wall while turning under his gun arm, trying to come up with that arm bent around backward, trying to lever Abadandi down into a powerless position on the floor.

  And the singing had stopped. Abadandi, with everything else going on, took note of that; the singing had stopped the instant his back hit the door, meaning the one in the shower knew something was going on, meaning there would very soon be two of them in the play.

  He hit the guy twice on the back of the head with his fist, but it made no difference. The guy was moving under his left arm, twisting the arm forward and down, pressuring Abadandi’s shoulder to follow, his body to follow the shoulder. Then the guy was through his turn, was rising again, was next to Abadandi now instead of in front of him, the two of them both facing out from the wall but turned slightly toward one another, and the guy had both hands on Abadandi’s wrist, one above the other, pressing forward and down. Abadandi couldn’t turn into that pressure, couldn’t get at the guy with anything at all, and he felt himself slowly but steadily bending forward.

  There wasn’t time for this, not with the other one ready to join at any second. Abadandi had been a wrestler and a tumbler in high school, he still did some of the old tumbling routines out by the pool for the enjoyment of his kids, so now he suddenly dropped to the left knee, dipped the left shoulder, the one getting all the pressure, and rolled, somersaulted in a compact ball out toward the middle of the room, at the same time kicking up and back with his left leg, hoping to hit anything at all.

  Nothing. But he did break the hold on his wrist, he did free himself. Spinning around on the middle of his back, still in the tight ball, still rolling away from the doorway, he came up on his knees facing the doorway again, his head coming up out of the ball-shape, his eyes staring up and out, seeing the second man naked and astonished in the doorway, and then seeing a dark shape angling toward him, zooming in at him like a jet plane, and he realized it was the other guy’s foot, coming up on a trajectory to meet the flow of his own movement. He hadn’t pulled himself free, after all; the guy had let him go, had stayed close to him, had followed the arc of his motion, and was right now aiming a kick at a spot in the air where Abadandi’s head was about to be.

  He tried to stop, stall, alter, drop, lunge, shift, somehow change the movement, but the momentum was on him and the orders to his muscles were too slow, and he thought. My contact lenses! and pain struck the right side of his head like a bucket of fire and blotted him out.

  Twenty

  Parker kicked the guy in the head, stepped to the right, kicked the gun from the slackening fingers across the room, dropped to one knee as the guy landed heavily on his left side, and chopped down hard on his neck with the edge of his hand.

  That was enough; maybe more than enough. Parker shoved his shoulder so that he fell out flat on his back, and patted him quickly for more weapons. A .22-caliber Browning Lightweight automatic in a small clamshell holster attached to the inside of his right shin. Nothing else.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Parker looked up; it was Grofield, in the bathroom doorway, naked and with a cake of soap in his hand. “Either an angry husband,” Parker said, “or somebody from the people who got our money.”

  Grofield came padding forward, dripping on the rug. Frowning at the unconscious man, he said, “No husbands this trip. He came here to kill me, huh?”

  “Both of us,” Parker said. “He picked you first because he had a make on the car.”

  “I’m too trusting,” Grofield said. He looked at the cake of soap he was holding. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Sure.”

  Grofield went back to his shower, and Parker went more carefully through the unconscious man’s pockets. Crumpled Viceroys in the shirt. Right side trouser pocket a key chain, containing two house keys, a small anonymous key, and ignition and trunk keys for a Chrysler Corporation car. In the same pocket forty-three cents in change. Left pocket a matchbook advertising the New York Room. Left rear pocket five twenty-dollar bills folded separately into thin flat lengths. Right rear pocket the wallet.

  Parker carried the wallet over to one of the room’s two chairs, lit the table lamp next to it, sat down, and went through every piece of paper the wallet contained.

  The guy on the floor was named Michael A. Abadandi. He lived at 157 Edgeworth Avenue. He was a member of the International Brotherhood of Teamsters and the United Brotherhood of Carpenters & Joiners
and the American Alliance of Machinists & Skilled Trades. He had credit cards, driver’s license, and a bank courtesy identification card, but nothing indicating his employment. He was carrying fifty-seven dollars in the wallet, in addition to the hundred that had been tucked away in the other hip pocket.

  The phone was over by the bed. Parker went over there, carrying the wallet, and put a call through to Lozini, at home. The male voice that answered said, “Mr. Lozini isn’t up yet.”

  “Get him up. Tell him it’s Parker.”

  “He left a call for nine.”

  “You tell him,” Parker said, “that I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

  “But—”

  Parker hung up, got to his feet, and started over to Abadandi as Grofield came back out of the bathroom, one white towel wrapped around his waist as he scrubbed his hair with another. Parker said to him, “We’re going to Lozini’s.”

  Grofield stopped drying his hair, but left the towel draped around his head, so that he looked like a sheik’s younger son. “Both of us?” Nodding at the man on the floor, he said, “You think Lozini did that?”

  “No. This is the other side. But they’re using Lozini’s people.”

  “It said so in his wallet?”

  “He was in the amusement park two years ago,” Parker said. “I recognized him.”

  Grofield went to the closet to get the suitcase. Putting it on the bed, he said, “Good thing you did. But where was he?”

  ”Outside.” Parker nodded at the room next door, saying, “I was in my place, I looked out the window to see if the car was back, and I saw him doing a circuit down there, looking things over.”

  “Somebody followed us last night.” Grofield was stepping into his clothes.

  “He was just giving up when you came in. He watched where you went, and then he faded away for a while. So I let myself in over here, and watched out the window till he came back.”

  “All the time I was in the shower? Why not tell me something?”

  “What point? You’re tired and naked and wet, and I can handle it.”

  Grofield went back to the closet for his shoes. Putting them on, he looked at Abadandi and said, frowning, “He’s bleeding.”

  “Put a towel under him. We don’t want marks on the rug.”

  Getting one of his white towels, Grofield knelt next to Abadandi and lifted the man’s head to put the towel underneath. The blood trickling down the side of his face and around his ear into his hair was a slender dark red ribbon. Grofield, leaning close, said, “Jesus, Parker.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “It’s his eye.”

  Parker went over and stood watching while Grofield thumbed back the man’s other eyelid. The eye stared upward wetly, without expression, and Grofield gently touched a fingertip to the pupil, then let the lid close again; it did so slowly, like a rusted gate.

  “Contact lens,” Grofield said. He moved slightly to the side, so Parker could see the blood seeping from Abadandi’s other eyelid: thin, unceasing, with a slight pulsing effect in it. “The other one’s back in his head someplace,” Grofield said.

  Parker went down on one knee, and twisted Abadandi’s cheek. The flesh was cold, doughlike. There was no reaction to the pinch. “Damn,” Parker said.

  “He’s in shock,” Grofield said.

  “I wanted him to talk to us,” Parker said.

  “Not today. Maybe not ever.”

  “He doesn’t die here,” Parker said. “You ready?”

  ”Sure.”

  “We need tape, some kind of tape.”

  “Electric tape?”

  “Anything.”

  Grofield went to his suitcase, and came back with a roll of glossy-backed electric tape, half-inch width. Parker ripped two two-inch lengths of it, and taped Abadandi’s right eyelid down. The eye felt strange beneath the thin skin. Parker wiped the blood away from the side of the face, and waited. No more blood seeped out from under the tape, which looked like a small neat black eyepatch. “Good,” Parker said. He rolled up the towel, bloody side in, and gave it to Grofield. “Stash that.”

  “Right.”

  Standing, Parker said, “We’ll walk him to the car, leave him somewhere.”

  Grofield closed his suitcase and put it away again. Then they picked up Abadandi’s awkward weight between them, lifting him by the armpits, putting his arms over their shoulders. From a distance, he could be a drunk being helped along by his friends.

  They went out to the balcony. Two maids were talking in an open doorway halfway around the horseshoe, but nobody else was visible. They carried Abadandi along the balcony, his feet dragging, and maneuvered him awkwardly down the stairs. Two disapproving middle-aged women in their Sunday finery, purses hanging from their forearms, waited at the bottom of the steps, and glared impartially at all three men as they went by, before clicking huffily up, nattering to one another.

  They put him in the back seat of the Impala and drove away from the motel, Parker at the wheel and Grofield occasionally glancing back at Abadandi. After several blocks, Grofield said, in a troubled and unhappy way, “Goddamnit.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Now he’s bleeding from the ear.”

  “Put some paper in it.”

  Grofield opened the glove compartment. “Nothing there.”

  “Turn his head then. We’ll unload him in a couple minutes.” Grofield adjusted Abadandi’s head. Parker drove away from the city, looking for a tumoff that might lead to privacy. They were going to be late to Lozini’s, but there wasn’t any help for it. Sunday morning traffic was light and mostly slow-moving; family groups.

  “I feel sorry for the bastard,” Grofield said.

  Parker glanced at him, and looked back at the road. “If I’d slept late this morning,” he said, “he could be feeling sorry for you by now.”

  “An hour ago I was getting laid back there,” Grofield said. “Jesus, his skin looks bad.”

  Parker kept driving.

  Twenty-one

  Lozini was out by the pool, still on his first cup of coffee. He had dressed in paint-stained work pants and an old white shirt and brown loafers, and he was wearing sunglasses against the morning glare. He felt unwell and uncomfortable, and it was only partly because he’d had too little sleep. The rest was nerves, the accumulating tension and unease and a sense of helplessness that he wasn’t used to. He’d lived a life of dealing with his enemies, directly and efficiently, and winning out over them. Now he had a sense of enemies he couldn’t find, couldn’t deal with, wasn’t winning over.

  And what had happened now? Parker was late by almost a quarter of an hour, and Lozini wanted to know what the new problem was. His nerves weren’t getting any better sitting here.

  Movement over by the house. Lozini shifted in his chair, and put the coffee cup back on the glass-topped table. Parker and Green both came out into the sunlight, followed by the houseman, Harold. Lozini waved to Harold to go back inside, and Parker and Green came on alone.

  Lozini didn’t stand. He gestured to the empty chairs at the table, and as they were seating themselves he said, “Harold ask you if you want coffee?”

  Parker said, “Michael Abadandi works for you.”

  Lozini frowned. “That’s right.”

  “He came to our motel this morning, to make a hit.”

  “On you?” But that was a stupid question, and Lozini knew Parker wouldn’t answer it.

  He didn’t. “You didn’t send him,” he said.

  “Christ, no.”

  Parker said, “Lozini, if you’ve got the digestion for that coffee, you’re a tough man.”

  “I don’t,” Lozini said.

  “You’re falling off a cliff,” Parker said.

  “I know that. Don’t talk about it.”

  “I have a point to make.”

  “I know the shape I’m in. Make your point.”

  “In all this city, there are only two people you can trust.”


  Lozini looked at him. Green, silent, was sitting there next to Parker, with his arms folded, squinting slightly in the sunlight and looking much more serious than when he’d had his little chat with Frankie Faran.

  Lozini looked from Green back to Parker and said, “You two?”

  “How did Abadandi find us? He was told where we were staying. How did anybody know where we were staying? We were followed after I left your meeting last night. How could we be followed? Because somebody who knew about the meeting put somebody outside to follow us. Who knew about the meeting? Only the people you trust.”

  “All right,” Lozini said.

  “You’ve got a palace takeover on your hands,” Parker told him. “That means a group, maybe four or five, maybe a dozen. A group of people inside your own organization that want you out and somebody else in. Somebody who’s already up close to the top, that they want to take your place.”

  Lozini took his sunglasses off and massaged his closed eyes with thumb and forefinger. His eyes still closed, he said, “For the first time in my life I know what getting old is. It’s wanting to be able to call for a time-out.” He put the sunglasses back on and studied them both. Their faces were closed to him, and always would be. “You’re right,” he said. “You’re the only ones I can trust, because I know exactly where you stand and what you want.”

  Neither of them said anything. Lozini looked around at the California pool and the New England house and the Midwest sunshine and said, “I built this by being fast and smart. All of a sudden I look at myself and I’ve been coasting, I don’t even know for how long. Five years? No; I was still fast and smart when I was after you in that amusement park two years ago.”

  Parker nodded. “You are different now,” he said.

  Lozini made a fist, and rested it on the table next to the coffee. “It didn’t take them long, did it? I start to coast, and right away somebody’s climbing up my back. They can smell it, the bastards. ‘Lozini’s getting old, time to make my play.’” He thumped the fist softly on the table. “If only I knew which of them it was, if only I had that much satisfaction.”