The Jugger

by Richard Stark

  “I’ll call you later.”

  “I mean it, Abner.”

  “I said I’ll call you later.”

  Rayborn still hesitated a few seconds longer and then finally gave a weak man’s shrug and turned away and went on out the front door. He closed it behind himself, and in the silence that followed, Younger puffed out a blue Disney cloud of cigar smoke and said, “That man is a weak sister. Nothing but a weak sister.”

  Parker swiveled his eyes without moving his head. He watched Younger, and waited to see what would happen next. His face felt strange, the left side dead and numb.

  Captain Younger sighed massively and got to his feet. The cigar was in his left hand, the gun in his right. His cowboy hat was tipped back on his head, his shirt collar was open and tie loosened, his suit jacket was unbuttoned, and his trousers were hooked under his paunch. He looked like a man with nothing but time and patience. He was a lot more sure of himself now, after the session with Rayborn, and he was showing it.

  He walked around the room a little bit, still keeping well away from Parker, and finally he said, “The question is, do you know where it is or don’t you? That’s the question.”

  Parker waited; nothing to say yet, nothing to respond to.

  “At first, I figured you did know, and all I had to do was keep you in sight, you’d lead me straight to it. But now I don’t think so. It isn’t here. I don’t believe for a minute it’s in this house, so you poking around here means you don’t know any more than anybody. Is that right?”

  Parker couldn’t tell yet whether it would be best to claim to know nothing or everything, so he went on waiting.

  Younger had been trying some rudimentary kind of psychology, because now he said, “Or is it here? Do you know for sure it’s here? How come you were digging in the cellar?”

  Parker shook his head, but didn’t say anything.

  “All right, not you, your partner. The little bastard in the funny clothes. You were seen punching him in the face right out on the sidewalk this afternoon, what do you think of that?”

  “Not much.”

  “He’s your partner, isn’t he?”

  “No.”

  “He was digging down there, wasn’t he?”

  “Maybe it was him, maybe not. The guy that hit me had a burlap bag over his head.”

  “Oh, stop that! You went down there with him! What do you think I am?”

  Parker said, “I think you’re a hick and a moron and a bigmouth and yellow from your head to your ass.”

  The captain stopped in his tracks and stared at Parker. His face got red, and his hand on the gun got white. He opened his mouth three times before he managed to say anything, and then the words came out in a strangled whisper:

  “I could kill you, Willis, don’t you know that? I run this town, I run it, I run the police force. I could kill you, right here and now, shoot you down dead at my feet, and nobody’d ever say a word to me about it. You’re surely wanted somewhere for something, an old friend of Joe Sheer’s like you, you’ve got to be on somebody’s wanted list. I caught you burglarizing the house and when I tried to arrest you, you jumped me and I shot you in self-defense. Don’t you know that? I could kill you right now and not think twice about it.”

  “If you kill me,” Parker told him, “you’ll never know anything.”

  “I won’t? I won’t?” For some reason, that seemed to make Younger even madder than before. “Explain that,” he said. “Make it snappy, you, explain yourself. By God, I will kill you! You give me a reason not to do it, just one good reason not to shoot you down this minute.”

  Parker said, “I went to see Gliffe.”

  Younger waited, but Parker didn’t say any more. Finally, Younger said, “So what? What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You don’t understand what’s going on, Younger. You got a theory and it doesn’t work, it’s full of holes. There’s some little man I’m supposed to be partners with, but I’m seen hitting him on the street and he hits me with a shovel down in the cellar here. You call that partners? Does your theory tell you why I went to see Gliffe and Rayborn? Does it tell you why I went to Lynbrooke?”

  “To get the paper, what are you talking about? I know what you went to Lynbrooke for, to get the paper.”

  “Why? Why did I want the paper?”

  Younger was looking more and more baffled, more and more irritated, more and more impatient and enraged. He waved his arms wildly, shouting, “What the hell do I care? I don’t care what you wanted the goddam paper for, what do I care about that? I know what you came to this town for, don’t give me a lot of—”

  The shrilling of the telephone cut into his hollering and stopped it like turning off a radio. In the silence after the first ring they looked at one another, Younger’s eyes wide as though some sort of superstition had him in its grip, Parker watching and waiting.

  The phone shrilled a second time. Younger shook his head and in the silence this time said, “It’s your partner, calling you. But I’ll answer the phone, Willis, what do you think of that?”

  There was nothing to say. Younger was a moron with a title, that’s all; give a moron authority and after a while he forgets he’s a moron.

  Younger went over and picked up the phone before it could make its noise a third time. He held it carefully to his face, as though still a little afraid it might explode. Cautiously he said, “Hello? Hello?”

  As Parker watched, an expression of relief washed over Younger’s face and he said, “Yes, this is he, this is he.” He hunched over the phone, listening as though for a state secret; then he frowned and half turned to peer at Parker, and said, “Who? Local?” He kept watching Parker as he listened to the answer, and then he turned away again and said, his voice lower than before, “How long?”

  Parker knew something was wrong, but not how bad or if it connected with him. He watched and waited and wondered if in a minute or two he was going to have to jump Younger and kill him and start covering his tracks around here.

  This thing was just getting worse and worse, and now he was in it too deep to get out again, and the worst part was he was in it using the Charles Willis name, the safe name, the cover name, the background name. If the Charles Willis name got loused up he’d have to start all over again from scratch.

  He looked at his hands. The tips of those fingers were on file in Washington, listed under the name Ronald Casper. Ronald Casper was wanted for killing a prison-farm guard in California, the result of a bad time he’d had with his now-dead wife a few years ago. Parker himself was probably wanted for a few robberies here and there, though without the connecting link of fingerprints. But up till now Charles Willis wasn’t wanted anywhere.

  He couldn’t afford to have Younger book him, not for anything, not even for spitting on the sidewalk. He couldn’t afford to have Charles Willis connected up with Ronald Casper, the two names meeting in the middle at Parker. Somehow he had to come out of this with the Willis name still safe.

  If he’d known Joe was dead, known there would be this trouble, he wouldn’t have used the Willis name in the first place. If he’d known what it was going to be like, he wouldn’t have come in here at all.

  Waiting for Younger, waiting to find out how much new trouble this phone call meant, he tried to work out how to keep the Willis name safe if worse came to worst. He’d have to get rid of Younger, and Gliffe and Rayborn too, cover himself somehow with the hotel reservations, get back to Miami double-quick, and work up some sort of alibi placing him there the whole time. It would be complicated, and it would all have to be done fast. But he believed it could be done; the necessary can always be done.

  Over there on the phone, Younger was saying, “I’ll be right there. And leave the state boys out of this one, we’ll do it ourselves.”

  Parker lit a cigarette and shifted forward on the sofa so he could get to his feet faster if
he had to.

  Younger hung up the phone and turned to look at Parker. He was frowning again, looking baffled. “All right,” he said. “Maybe you’re right.”

  “Right about what?”

  “Things I don’t know, things I got to find out.”

  Parker watched him, wondering what had happened to change Younger this way.

  Younger said, “They just found your partner clubbed to death, it looks like with a shovel.” He nodded. “In your hotel room,” he said.

  “My room?”

  “That’s what I say.” Younger looked down at the gun in his hand as though he’d never seen it before. He shook his head and tucked the gun away inside his coat. “Come on. Let’s go see him.”

  2

  The room was full of law. Apparently somebody on Younger’s force had invited the state police to attend after all; the pack of technical men, with their cameras and chalk, powders and notebooks and little white envelopes, all seemed too professional, too sleek, too quiet and efficient to be any part of the local law.

  The local law was three dough-faced farm hands in rumpled blue uniforms, standing around the room looking for traffic to direct.

  Parker stood there near the door and watched. When they’d come in, Younger had looked at the pros at work, had cursed under his breath, and had told Parker, “You wait right there. Don’t talk to nobody.” Now he was across the room talking to the guy who must be in charge of the state men: a tall, straight, strong-looking guy with a grey crewcut and a professor’s face.

  Parker watched and waited. From where he was standing, he could see Tiftus on the floor next to the bed. He wasn’t much to look at. He’d been turned away, so the shovel—or whatever the guy had used—had hit him on the back of the head, cracking his skull like so many pieces of egg shell. He’d fallen on his face, blood and hair had mixed together to make a little thatched roof on the back of his head, and he’d died.

  The technicians worked around him now as though they expected to launch him into space.

  Across the room, Younger wasn’t being happy. He was trying to argue, but he wasn’t winning. The state man was being polite but firm, and Parker could see that Younger didn’t stand a chance.

  Younger saw it too, after a while, and gave up. He came back over to Parker and said, “We got to talk.”

  “We do?”

  “Out in the hall.”

  Parker knew it was a dumb move, but this was Younger’s party right now. He followed Younger out to the hall, feeling the state man’s eyes on his back all the way.

  In the hall, down a way from the door, Younger turned and, standing close to the wall, said, “You’re in the clear on killing him.”

  “And?”

  “With me,” Younger said, “I know you’re in the clear. They don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  Younger was taking some satisfaction from this exchange, evening the score for losing with the state man. He took his time. “They know when he was killed. Within half an hour they know it. I was already with you then. I’m your alibi.”

  Parker said, “And I’m yours.”

  Younger was surprised. “Mine? What the hell do I need with an alibi?”

  “You’re looking for something, and so was Tiftus.”

  “And so are you, God damn it.”

  Parker shrugged.

  Younger said, “We don’t have much time, Willis, don’t waste it with a lot of crap. I’m your alibi, that’s the point, I’m your alibi if I want to be. If I don’t want to be, you’ve had it.”

  “You didn’t say anything yet?”

  “Not a word. Regan, the guy I was talking to, he wants to ask you some questions.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s your room. Because you’re a stranger here and so is that guy whatchamacallim, and because you knew each other.”

  Parker nodded. “So you want to deal.”

  “Partners,” Younger told him. “Fifty-fifty split, all the way.”

  “I don’t know where the stuff is.”

  “So we’ll both look for it, we’ll team up.” Younger jabbed a thumb at the room they’d just left. “Somebody killed him,” he said. “It wasn’t you and it wasn’t me. So there’s somebody else in this. We got to stick together for our own good.”

  The best thing now was to ride along with Younger and look for a chance to get the edge. Parker said, “It’s a deal.”

  Younger seemed relieved. “That’s good,” he said. “We still got to let Regan talk to you, but don’t worry, I’ll be right there with you.”

  Parker wasn’t worried. He said, “Afterwards, I want to get out of the hotel.”

  Younger was suddenly suspicious. “Why? Where you want to go?”

  “Back to Joe’s house.”

  “We look together, Willis.”

  “Not to look, to live. To stay.”

  “Why?”

  “There’s no cops there.”

  Younger said, “You don’t figure to skip, do you?”

  “And leave it all for you?”

  It was the right thing to say. Younger nodded and said, “All right, then. We’ll go back together. I’ll tell you one thing, I don’t think it’s in the house. I been through that house, and I don’t think it’s there. I didn’t dig in the cellar, but I looked around there and I didn’t see any sign he’d been digging, and I would have. He hid it good, the old bastard.” Younger shook his head, and then smiled. “But we’ll find it, won’t we?”

  “Sure.”

  It made Younger happy to think so. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go talk to Regan.”

  3

  Sitting in front of the desk, Parker smoked a cigarette and waited for Regan to come back. Behind him, Younger paced back and forth, back and forth, puffing on a cigar and muttering to himself.

  They were in the hotel manager’s office; Regan had commandeered it for his interviews. He had phoned the manager from Parker’s room and then had escorted Parker and Younger down in the elevator. It was clear he didn’t have any use for Younger; he treated Younger with the curt, polite contempt of a professional forced to deal with an incompetent in the same profession. It was also clear he didn’t yet know what to make of Parker, and was waiting to learn more.

  Once in the manager’s office, Regan remembered something else he had to do, excused himself, and left Younger and Parker alone. Parker said to Younger, “Could this place be bugged?”

  “What? Of course not.”

  Parker shook his head. He couldn’t figure out what Regan was up to. He had to know Parker and Younger had already talked together in the hall, and he had to know they’d arrived at the room together in the first place. So what was Regan up to?

  Given his choice, Parker would have sided with Regan against Younger rather than the other way around. Given his choice, Parker would have picked almost anyone for a partner instead of Younger; even Tiftus. But he didn’t have a choice, so he had to do the best he could with what he had.

  He said, “Don’t talk too much when he’s asking me questions. Let me answer myself.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” Younger said. He was offended.

  “Yes I do. You don’t talk unless Regan asks you a direct question, and then all you do is answer it.”

  “I’ll take care of myself, Willis. You just take care of you.” Younger was really hot under the collar. He stalked back and forth and blew cigar smoke everywhere.

  Parker stopped. He didn’t want Younger lousing things up for spite, and he was just dumb enough to do it if he was pushed hard enough.

  Regan came back in, finally, and said, “Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Willis. Willis, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Willis. Charles Willis.”

  “Of course. Abner, sit down, why don’t you?” Regan went around behind the manager’s desk and sat down there like a man about to get caught up on his work. “Could I see some identification, Mr. Willis? Just for the record.”

  Park
er got out his wallet and put it, open, on the desk. “Everything in there,” he said. “Go on through it.”

  “Ah, thank you, that won’t be necessary.” Regan smiled briefly and politely at the wallet, and said to Younger, “I’m having one of my stenographers in, so you won’t have to call yours. I’ll send you a copy, of course.”

  Parker looked at Younger, and saw that Younger hadn’t thought about a stenographer at all, that Regan had just gone out of his way to insult Younger, and that Younger had caught the insult in the midsection. But Younger didn’t say anything, not a word.

  Regan turned to Parker and said, “As I understand it, you and Mr. Tiftus were in business together.”

  Parker shook his head. “Not me. You’ve got that wrong.”

  “I do?” Regan reached out and patted Parker’s wallet, offhandedly, the way another man might doodle. “That was my understanding,” he said. “You knew Mr. Tiftus in some other way, then?”

  “I’d met him before.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “In Miami, at the dog track. He owned a few dogs.”

  “Ah, he was in racing. And are you in racing, Mr. Willis?”

  “No, I’m in business.”

  “Business? May I ask what business?”

  “Various businesses. Real estate, parking lots, laundromats, here and there across the country.” Parker pointed at the wallet. “There’s papers on some of it in there.”

  But Regan wouldn’t give any attention to the wallet. He said, “Then you and Mr. Tiftus didn’t come here together.”

  “No.”

  “It was just coincidence you happened to meet here again.”

  Parker shook his head. “No, it wasn’t.”

  Regan seemed surprised. “It wasn’t coincidence? You mean you’d planned to meet here?”

  “No. I didn’t know I’d see him here at all. But I came here for Joe Shardin’s funeral, and I guess Tiftus did, too. You meet somebody at the funeral of a guy you both knew, that isn’t coincidence.”

  Regan turned his head and looked at Younger. “Shardin?”