“Sure, Phil. Thanks.”
“Right. And now if you'll excuse me, buddy, I've got a little something—”
“Oh, sure,” said Mal. “Sure thing.” He started for the door, realized the empty glass was still in his hand, and detoured to the bar. Then he smiled quickly at Phil, who stood there in the middle of the room waiting for him to go, and left.
4
The office building was thirty-seven stories high. In gold letters on the frosted glass door of 706 were the words: FREDERICK CARTER, Investments. Mal pushed open the door and entered an empty anteroom. A bell rang faintly as he closed the door.
Two sofas, two standing lamps, two end tables, a stack of back issues of U.S. News & World Report. An unmarked wooden door across the room. Mal stood hesitating, wondering whether or not to sit down and wait, when the door opened and a tall broad-shouldered man, who looked like a movie cowboy, but wore a dark gray business suit, came out and closed the door again after him. Mal heard the lock click shut.
The man said, “Can I help you?” There was a trace of roughness left in a voice that tried to be soft.
Mal said, “I'm Mal Resnick. I have an appointment with Mr. Carter.”
“Resnick,” said the man. “Yes, I remember. Turn around, please.”
Mal turned around, and the man came over to pat him briefly, frisking him. His wallet was slipped out of his pocket, his driver's license read, and the wallet put back. “All right,” said the man. “Come with me.”
Mal turned around again, glad he'd resisted the impulse to wear a gun—with Parker somewhere in New York, maybe he'd need one, maybe they'd just bump into each other on the street or something—and waited while the man unlocked the door and led the way through.
They crossed a gray office with functional gray furnishings, and through another door to a kind of living room-bar.
“Wait here. Please do not drink,” the man said, unsmiling.
Mal waited, and after a couple of minutes the man came back, holding the inner door open and saying, “Mr. Carter will see you now.”
“Thank you.”
Mal went into Mr. Carter's office. The man closed the door again and went over to sit impassive in a corner to the right. Mr. Carter said, “Come on in, Resnick. Sit down.”
Mr. Carter was an impressive man. His resemblance to Louis Calhern was startling. Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk, he brought to mind visions of Wall Street and high finance, rails and steel and banking. Law books and economic treatises filled the glass-doored bookshelves. Photographs, unsigned, of presidents were spotted around the walls.
He motioned now to a brown leather chair in front of his desk, and Mal settled into it promptly, trying to sit tall and alert. “Phil tells me you have a personal problem you want us to help you with. Is that right?”
Mal swallowed. It wasn't a good beginning. “Well, it's a personal problem, but I thought it might hurt the Outfit if this guy was to keep nosing around.”
Mr. Carter made a tent of his fingers. “That's a possibility,” he said. “Now there are three possible ways to handle this situation.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “First, we could give you the assistance you ask for. Second, we could ignore the problem and let you handle it yourself, as best you may. Third, if it seemed that there actually was a danger to the smooth operation of our organization, we could have you replaced.”
Mal blinked, and looked instinctively over his shoulder at the other man, but he was still just sitting there, impassive.
“Each of these alternatives,” Mr. Carter went on quietly, “has its advantages. We have an investment in you, Resnick, of time and money and training. After one mistake in Chicago, you've done very well in the organization. If we choose our first alternative, and give you our assistance, we'll be protecting our investment in you, which is always good business policy.”
“I'd appreciate it, Mr. Carter,” Mal said hurriedly. “I'd do good work, you'd never regret it.”
“If we choose our second alternative,” Mr. Carter said, ignoring him, “that of ignoring the problem and leaving it to your own devices, there is another advantage to consider. A man in our organization, Resnick, has to be tough and self-reliant. Were you to handle this problem completely on your own, you would leave no doubt in anyone's mind that you were the kind of man we want, the kind of man who could go places in our organization.”
Mal nodded briskly. “I want to handle it myself, Mr. Carter,” he said. “All I want is some help finding this guy. Once he's spotted, I can take care of it myself.”
“However,” said Mr. Carter, “there is always that business in Chicago. You made good on that, you paid us back for your blunder. But still the blunder did happen. And it leaves a question in our minds. Perhaps you don't have the mettle we require. You're a good administrator in your area, but being a good administrator is not enough. Perhaps the blunder in Chicago—and the fact that you have allowed an area of your personal life to become a possible danger to the organization—are indications that you are not our kind of man. In that case, our most profitable move would be to have you eliminated as a factor in the organization. That would automatically remove the external danger you have brought to us.”
Mal sat silent, every nerve tense. His lips trembled, but no arguments came to his mind.
Mr. Carter studied the tent of his fingers. His lips pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed. Finally, he raised his eyes and said, “Before making my decision, perhaps I'd better know more about your problem. According to Phil, there is a man unconnected with the organization who has a grudge against you, and who has come to New York looking for you, apparently to kill you. You also say that he is alone, and that he is a professional robber. Is that right?”
Mal nodded. “That's right. He does payroll jobs, banks, things like that.”
“What is his name?”
“Parker.”
Mr. Carter frowned. “Doesn't he have a first name?”
“I don't know it, Mr. Carter. He never called himself anything but Parker. His wife must of known it, but she never told me. I never thought to ask.”
“And does this wife of Parker's have something to do with the grudge?”
“Yes, sir.”
“In other words, you are being hunted by a cuckolded husband, is that it?”
Mal considered, thinking fast. If he said yes, there wouldn't be any embarrassing questions about that hijacking job. But would the Outfit think it important enough to help a guy having trouble with some broad's husband? Probably not. Mal took a deep breath. “There's more to it than that, Mr. Carter,” he said.
“Yes. I thought there must be. Where did you get the eighty thousand dollars, Resnick?”
“Mr. Carter, I—”
“That's what this man is here for, isn't it? The eighty thousand dollars you paid us back?”
Mal gnawed his lip. “Yes.”
Mr. Carter sat back, his leather chair creaking expensively. “We never asked you where you got that money, Resnick,” he said. “It wasn't our business. You owed us a debt, and you paid it, and we gave you a second chance. Now it appears that it is our business after all. Where did you get the money, Resnick?”
“A—a heist. A holdup, Mr. Carter.”
“And who was held up? This man Parker?”
“No, sir.”
“He was part of the gang that performed the holdup?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mr. Carter nodded, gazing over Mal's head at the opposite wall. “You betrayed your associate for profit,” he said. “Not always a reprehensible action, if there was a sensible motive. And this time there was a sensible motive. You wanted to repay us for your blunder.”
“That's right, Mr. Carter.” Mal leaned forward eagerly in his chair. “I set the thing up, you see, and this guy Parker tried a double cross first. But it didn't work, and I switched it back on him.”
“You shouldn't have left him alive, Resnick,” Mr. Carter said. “That was a serious e
rror of judgment.”
“I thought he was dead, Mr. Carter. I shot him, and he sure as hell looked dead. And then I set fire to the house he was in.”
“I see.” Mr. Carter spread his hands palm down on the green blotter atop his desk and considered his fingernails. “There is one more matter,” he said. “Just where did this holdup take place?”
Mal had already seen that question coming, and he knew that this time the truth would be more dangerous than any lie. There was always the chance—and a pretty good chance at that—that either Mr. Carter himself or some friend of his had invested in that munitions deal. It was time for a lie.
But Mr. Carter just might check the lie. Mal remembered Parker mentioning that he and Ryan had worked together on a job in Des Moines not long before the island job. Mal didn't know the details but it had taken place and it was the only other one he knew. So he said, “In Des Moines, Mr. Carter, about a year and a half ago. A payroll job.”
“I see. And you left with Parker's share of the money and also with Parker's wife, is that it?”
Mal nodded. “Yes, sir.”
Mr. Carter permitted himself a wintry smile. “His grudge, therefore,” he said, “is perfectly understandable.”
“It was him or me, Mr. Carter.”
“Of course. Is Mrs. Parker still with you?”
“No, sir. We broke up about three months ago. I heard he killed her yesterday.”
“Killed her? Do you suppose he found out first where to find you?”
“She didn't know, Mr. Carter.”
“You're sure of that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right.” Mr. Carter made a tent of his fingers again, and studied the fingertips. His lips pursed and relaxed, fishlike, and the silence in the room lengthened. The silent man in the corner shifted position, causing a slight rustle, and Mal jumped, his head snapping around, his eyes staring. He breathed again when he saw that the man was still just sitting there, impassive, smoking a cigarette.
Mal wanted a cigarette. He wanted one badly. But he didn't think it would be right to light one. He licked his lips and waited.
Finally, Mr. Carter looked up. “If you remember,” he said, “we have three possible choices.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Assist you, leave you to your own devices, or eliminate you from the organization. For the moment, I think we will pursue number two. If you manage to handle this problem yourself, so much the better. If you find you're having too much difficulty, come back and we'll talk it over, and decide whether we should shift to choice one or choice three.” His wintry smile came out again. “I think that's our best decision for now.”
Mal got unsteadily to his feet, a growing chill in the pit of his stomach. “Thank you, Mr. Carter.”
“That's perfectly all right. Any time. Oh, and Resnick. You are responsible for the work of a group within the organization. That group has a sufficient workload. They won't be available to help you in this personal matter.”
“No, sir,” said Mal.
“One other thing. Perhaps it would be best, until this matter is settled one way or the other, if you were to move out of the Oakwood Arms. Your suite will be saved for you, of course. We wouldn't want any unpleasantness at the hotel. You understand?”
“Yes, sir,” said Mal.
The silent man accompanied him to the outer door.
5
Mal stood at the phone, counting the rings. On the tenth, he jammed his thumb on the cradle button, breaking the connection, and dialed another number. Pearl wasn't at home. Maybe she was at that crummy bar again.
She wasn't. The bartender recognized his voice and told him no, Pearl wasn't there. It irritated him that the bartender recognized his voice. He'd been relying on Pearl too much, he should get hold of something else.
It occurred to him that she might be at the hotel, waiting for him, not knowing that he'd moved, or that at least he could leave a message for her there at the desk. But the hell with it. He wanted something else, something good. Like that blonde of Phil's.
He hesitated, almost calling the Oakwood Arms anyway, but finally dialing a different number. A woman answered, a woman with a husky cigarette-raw voice, and he said, “Mal Resnick, Irma. I could use a girl.”
“Couldn't we all, honey? What's your price range?”
“I want something good, Irma,” he said, visualizing what he wanted. “A blonde, something really good. For all night.”
“Mal, honey,” she said, “it's been a while since you called. There's been something I've wanted to say to you.”
“What?”
“The envelope, honey. The last two girls complained to me. There wasn't enough in the envelope.”
He laughed, feeling not at all like laughing. “What the hell, Irma, discount to a fellow worker in the Outfit, right?”
“Wrong, honey. The girls got to make a living too. They got their price, they want to stick with customers who pay the price, you see what I mean?”
Mal was in no mood to argue. “All right,” he said abruptly. “All right, all right. I'll pay a hundred cents on the dollar. Satisfied?”
“Rarely, honey. Now I asked you, what price range?”
“I told you what I wanted. A blonde, something really good. Young, Irma, young and stacked.”
“You are talking about a hundred dollars, honey.”
Mal frowned and gnawed his lip, then nodded convulsively. “All right,” he said. “A hundred. For the night.”
“What else? You're at the Outfit, aren't you?”
“No, I moved. The St. David on 57th Street. Room 516.”
“You want to take her out to dinner, a show, anything like that?”
“I want her here, Irma. In the rack, you follow me?”
Irma laughed throatily. “An athletic blonde,” she said. “She'll be there by eight o'clock.”
“Fine.”
Mal hung up, and turned around to face the room, but there wasn't any bar in it. Thirty-two dollars a day, and no bar. He turned back and called room service. Two bottles, glasses, ice. They'd be right up.
It was barely seven o'clock. He had an hour to kill. He paced the room, disgusted. A hundred dollars for a lay: that was disgusting. Parker coming back from the dead: that was disgusting. Getting screwed up this way with the Outfit: that was disgusting. Even the room was disgusting.
The room was one of four. He wasn't sure what had made him do that, splurge on a four-room suite costing thirty-two dollars a day, any more than he was sure why he was throwing away a hundred dollars on a broad who couldn't possibly do any more for him than Pearl would. And who would, probably, since they would be strangers, do even less.
But he had splurged, reason or no reason he had splurged, on the girl and on the suite. Knowing that neither could be worth it.
The suite, for instance. This living room. It was old. The paint was new, the furnishings and fixtures were new, the prints on the walls were new, but beneath it all the room was old, and in the way of hotel rooms the oldness managed to gleam dirtily through the new overlay. And besides being old, it was impersonal. The suite at the Outfit hotel was his, it was where he lived. This suite wasn't lived in by anybody, now or ever, any more than a compartment in a Pullman car was lived in. It could be occupied, but it couldn't be lived in.
The girl would be the same way.
He was doing things wrong, he was making stupid mistakes, and what made it worse was the fact that he knew it. The knowledge that Parker was alive had rattled him more than he liked to admit. Going to Mr. Carter, for instance. He'd gained nothing, and maybe he'd lost.
Now Mr. Carter was watching him. Now he had to get Parker, not just avoid him but get him. This was a test and the Outfit was watching, and if he failed now he was through forever. This time he was too far up the chain of command to just be put out in the street. This time they would have to kill him.
He had to work alone. If he hadn't gone to Mr. Carter, he could have used some of the boy
s in his group, even given one of them the assignment of finishing Parker. Now he'd screwed up that chance, too. He had to work alone.
Stegman wouldn't find Parker, he knew that. Stegman couldn't possibly find Parker. It was up to him, completely up to him.
Suddenly he stopped his pacing, struck with an idea. There was a way to use the Outfit. It was dangerous as hell, but he could do it. He'd have to do it. There wasn't any other way.
He hurried across the room to the telephone and quickly dialed a number. When Fred Haskell answered, he said, “Fred, I want you to pass a word around for me.”
The Hunter: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels) Page 7
