The Hunter: A Parker Novel (Parker Novels)

by Richard Stark

  “Parker, I swear to you—” She was terrified now, knowing him from old times, and she was babbling. “I swear to you, I swear—”

  “He isn't there, Wanda,” he said again, as though she hadn't yet understood him. “The bed isn't made, the closet is empty, there's nothing around that belongs to anybody. He isn't there, and I want to know if he ever was there.”

  “Parker, Puh-Parker—” His hand twisted in her hair, and she stood on tiptoe, trying to stop the pain. “I wouldn't lie to you,” she babbled. “I wouldn't have any reason to lie to you.”

  “One reason,” he said. He twisted harder, lifted her higher so her toes barely touched the floor. “If you thought maybe you had a grudge against me, Wanda, that could be a reason. Send me to the Outfit hotel, let me barge in looking for a guy who isn't there, let the Outfit grab me and take care of me. That could be a reason.”

  “No grudge, Parker!” she cried. “I don't have any grudge—what grudge could I have against you?”

  “You tell me, Wanda.”

  “Parker, please!”

  He let her go so suddenly she lost her balance and fell to the floor. Her red hair was a tangle around her face. She looked up at him, not knowing what he was going to do next, and he said, “For just a little while, Wanda, I'm going to believe you. For just a little while. I'm going to believe that Mal used to live in that room, and that for some reason he moved out. He got spooked or something and—”

  He stopped, raising his eyes from her to look across the room at the draped window. “Spooked,” he said again. “Maybe. Found out about me maybe. Gone into a hole somewhere.”

  “He lived there, Parker,” she said desperately. “The girl he underpaid, she gave me the address. That's the honest-to-God truth, Parker—I swear it.”

  “Oh, Mal,” he said. “Oh, you bastard.” Then his head came down, he stared at her again, still asprawl on the floor. “You find out where, Wanda. You find out where he's run to.”

  “How can I? Parker, for God's sake, be reasonable. How can I?”

  “I know that bastard,” he said. “He went running into his hole, thinking about me and death. And he called up for a girl, Wanda, you can bet on it. I know that little bastard; he called for a girl. You call the same place, Wanda, and you find out where.”

  “How can I?” Sitting rumpled on the floor, she spread her arms in an exaggerated gesture. “What reason can I give? I can't just call up, Parker—they'll want to know why.”

  “All right,” he said. “You loaned him twenty bucks. You met at a party or something, and you loaned him twenty bucks. He was supposed to pay it back today, so you went over to the hotel and he'd moved out. And you want to know where he is now, so you can go over tomorrow and get your dough back. You got that?”

  “Parker, I don't know—”

  “You better know. Get on your feet.”

  She'd shifted position, the robe falling open below the sash at the waist, and her legs were tanned while her belly was white, and it reminded him of Lynn, that last night when he'd gone to her apartment. He turned away, irritated, saying, “Fix your robe. Get to your feet.”

  She got up shakily, eyeing him apprehensively, terrified of him in this mood, not knowing what else he would demand of her. “I'll try,” she said, wanting to placate him. “I'll try, Parker, I'll do my best.”

  “That's good,” he said.

  He followed her into the bedroom where the phone was. There was a king-sized bed with a satiny blue spread, and a cream-painted night table. The phone was on the nightstand, a blue Princess phone.

  “I don't know why I let them talk me into this thing,” she said, picking up the phone, trying to laugh and make a joke out of something—anything to break the harshness in the air. “You can't dial it, and you can't hang it up.” She sat on the edge of the bed, the phone in her lap, and held it with one hand while dialing with the other. She made a mistake on the third number and broke the connection, laughing uneasily, saying, “See what I mean?”

  The second time she managed to dial the right number. Parker stood with his back against the wall, by the door, watching her.

  She was answered on the third ring, and she asked for someone named Irma. Then there was a little pause, and she carefully didn't look at Parker. When Irma finally came on, she gave her the story about the twenty-dollar loan.

  Irma had some questions, and she answered them. Why had she waited so late to call? Because she'd been thinking about it all evening and getting madder and madder, and finally she'd decided to call. And where did she ever meet Mal Resnick, anyway? At that party thrown for that guy Bernie from Las Vegas that time—didn't Irma remember?—when twelve of the girls were sent to the party and Mal had been there. And why had she loaned a perfect stranger twenty dollars? Because he was in the Outfit, and it seemed all right. In fact it seemed like good politics. And was her vacation over? No, not till tomorrow.

  She did it well, with no hint by word or tone that anything was wrong, and at last Irma agreed to give her Mal's new address if she promised not to go around there till morning because Linda was there tonight. She promised, and then she took the pad and pencil from the nightstand and wrote down the address.

  When she'd finished thanking Irma and had hung up, having trouble making the receiver stay in the cradle, she put the phone back on the night table and got to her feet, holding out the pad. “Here,” she said. “The St. David Hotel on East 57th. Room 516.”

  He took the pad from her. “You did fine,” he said.

  “Go on if you're going,” she said, suddenly weary. “I've got to pack.”

  “Pack?”

  “You're going to kill him tonight,” she said, her voice drained. “Tomorrow, Irma is going to remember me calling, wanting to know where he was. They'll come around, and they'll ask questions, and then they'll kill me. I've got to leave here tonight.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She looked at him sullenly. “Don't thank me,” she said. “I didn't do it out of any love for you. If I'd refused, you'd have killed me. This way, I've got a few hours' head start.”

  6

  Parker came in through the window, seeing Mal rise up, head twisting over his shoulder, face slack with panic. He saw Mal make his lunge toward the dressing gown on the chair, and knew there must be a gun in the pocket of it. But he didn't hurry. He had plenty of time now, all the time in the world.

  He came across the room. Mal fell into the chair, he and the chair clattering together to the floor, and now the woman sat up, bewildered, not yet frightened, blinking at him. She raised one arm to cover her breasts.

  Mal was comical, a slapstick comedian, the way he got himself all tangled up in the chair and the dressing gown. His arms flailed around, searching for the pocket where the gun was. Parker came over to him and kicked the chair out of the way, and Mal came up at last with the gun in his hand, his face still slack but his movements jerkily fast, as though he were operated by strings.

  Mal came up and around with the gun in his sweaty hand, but Parker reached out and took hold of the barrel and slipped the gun right out of his hand. And the metal of the butt showed darker and gleaming from his sweat.

  Parker tossed the gun away into the corner with the chair, and reached down and took Mal's neck in his hands. Mal thrashed on the floor like a fish, arms and legs pinwheeling, and Parker held his neck steady as a rock and looked over his bobbing head at the woman sitting up on the bed. “You're a pro. Keep your mouth shut, you'll walk out of here.”

  Her mouth had been just opening, a scream welling up in her throat, but now she forced the scream back down. She willed her mouth closed again, and sat silent, watching wide-eyed as Parker held tight to Mal's throbbing neck and Mal's arms and legs moved with increasing heaviness. And then, all at once, Parker let him go. Mal fell backward, only half-conscious, his hands coming to his throat, the breath scraping into his lungs with a sound like two pieces of dry wood scraped together.

  Parker stood ov
er him, and it was too easy. And it wasn't enough. He didn't want to torture Mal, he wouldn't have got anything from that but wasted time. Ending his life, quick and hard and with his own hands, that was the way.

  But it was too easy, and it wasn't enough. For the first time he thought about the money. Half the take was his. The others were dead. He and Mal were alive; that meant half the take was his.

  He wanted the money, too. Killing Mal wasn't enough, it left a hole in the world afterward. Once he'd killed that bastard, what then? He had less than two thousand dollars to his name. He had to go on living, he had to get back into his old groove. The resort hotels and the occasional job, the easy comfortable life he'd had till this bastard had come along in his taxicab and told him about the job on the island. And to get back to that life, he needed money. Half. Forty-five thousand dollars.

  He said it aloud. “Forty-five thousand dollars, Mal, that's what you owe me.”

  Mal tried to speak, but it came out a croak. His voice wasn't working yet; the bad color hadn't completely faded from his face.

  Parker looked at the woman. “Get out of here,” he said. “Get dressed and get out of here.”

  She jumped up from the bed, clumsy with terror, and if she was normally a beautiful and graceful woman it was impossible to tell it now.

  “Mal,” said Parker. “Do you want her to call the police?”

  “No,” croaked Mal.

  “Do you want her to call the Outfit?”

  “No.”

  Parker nodded, and turned to the woman, who was bent awkwardly, stepping into her panties, cumbersome in her haste. “Listen, you,” he said. “Listen to what Mal has to say.”

  She stopped, staring at them, and Mal croaked, “Don't talk to nobody, don't tell nobody about this. The envelope's in the living room. Take it—go home—don't say nothing to nobody.”

  “That's good,” Parker said. He sat down on the edge of the bed, and they waited until the woman had left. Then Parker got to his feet again. “You owe me forty-five thousand dollars, Mal.”

  Mal thought now that maybe he wouldn't be killed after all. Maybe Parker didn't want to kill him, just to get half of the money. He struggled up from the floor, still shaky, and said, “I don't have it right now, Parker, I—”

  “What did you do with it?”

  “I had to pay the Outfit eighty thousand dollars. I gave it all to them.”

  That would do it. That would be enough. To go to the syndicate—the Outfit, whatever they wanted to call it—to go to them and get his money back. He needed that much—he needed to act, to force, to push. Mal wasn't enough, he was easy, he was too easy, he was the easiest thing that ever happened.

  “All right,” said Parker. “It's the same Outfit here as Chicago, right?”

  Mal nodded, puzzled. “Sure. Coast to coast, Parker, it's all the same.”

  “Who runs it here? Here in New York, who's the boss?”

  “What do you want, Parker? You can't—”

  “Do you want to die, Mal?”

  “What? No! For Christ's sake, Parker—”

  They stood facing each other. Parker held out his hands where Mal could see them, curved, ready to fit around Mal's neck. “Who's the boss in New York, Mal?”

  “They'll kill me, Parker, they'll—”

  “Not if you're already dead.” Parker rested his hands on Mal's neck, just easy, not squeezing yet. His arms were straight out, and this way he was unprotected should Mal decide to kick him in the groin or punch him in the stomach, but he knew Mal wouldn't try anything like that. He didn't have anything to worry about from Mal. Mal was easy.

  Mal's lip quivered, and then he said, “There's two of them, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter. They run things in New York, Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Carter.”

  “And where do I find them, Mal?”

  “Mr. Fairfax isn't in town right now.” Mal's tongue came out, moistening his lips, and his eyes flickered to the corner where Parker had thrown the gun.

  “Parker,” he said, pleading, “we can work something—”

  “Where do I find Carter?”

  “Please, Parker, it won't do you any good. You couldn't get in to see him anyway, and we can work—”

  Parkers hands tensed and relaxed on Mal's neck. “Where do I find Carter?”

  Mal hesitated, flickered his eyes, gestured with his hands, shifted his weight back and forth from leg to leg, and capitulated. “582 Fifth Avenue,” he said. He closed his eyes, as though then it wouldn't really be him telling. “He's got an office there, Frederick Carter Investments. Seventh floor, I forget the number.”

  Parker let his hands fall away from Mal's neck. “Fine,” he said. “That's fine.”

  Mal wanted to plead again, started to say something again about how they could work something out, but Parker stopped him. “Tell me about the office. You say I couldn't get in. Why not?”

  Mal told him about the layout of the office, the silent man who came out, and what the silent man said when it was some-one Mr. Carter didn't want to see.

  Parker nodded, listening, and said. “You been there recently, huh, Mal? When you heard I was after you?” He looked around the room. “They threw you away, huh? They wouldn't help you?”

  “They said it was up to me. Mr. Carter said so.”

  Parker laughed at him. “They should have known better, huh, Mal?”

  Then he took Mal's neck in his hands again, and this time he didn't let go till Mal stopped breathing.

  FOUR

  1

  The silent man pulled open the unmarked door and looked out at Parker. He hesitated and then said, “Can I help you?” He sounded puzzled. He didn't recognize Parker as an Outfit man, but he didn't look like an investment customer either.

  Parker said, “Tell your boss the guy who killed Mal Resnick is here.”

  The puzzlement on the silent man's face shifted subtly from real to fake. He said, “I'm sorry. I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “You don't have to,” Parker said.

  He turned his back and walked over to one of the sofas. Sitting down, he reached over to the table and picked up a copy of U.S. News & World Report. He read on the cover that the automobile industry was recovering.

  The silent man stood watching him, not knowing what to do. When Parker didn't look up, he shrugged and went out and closed the door again. Parker put the magazine down and got to his feet. He studied the two fox-hunting prints on the wall, but neither were one-way mirrors. He looked at the unmarked door. The knob was a golden brass, with the keyhole set in it. It looked like a tough lock. Parker thought of three men he knew who could go through it like a knife through butter.

  Five minutes went by, and the silent man came back, looking mistrustful. He said, “Mr. Carter will see you. I've got to frisk you first.”

  Parker raised his arms at his sides. Mal was dead now, and the mean urgency was out of him. He was reasonable now, a businessman coming to discuss a debt. The silent man could frisk him—it didn't matter.

  The silent man finished and stepped back. “You're clean,” he said grudgingly. He unlocked the door and led the way through. They went through the gray office and the living room–bar into Mr. Carter's office. Mr. Carter sat at his desk, reading a mimeo-graphed stock report. He looked up and said, “I didn't know Mal was dead.”

  “He is.”

  “Oh, I don't doubt your word.” He motioned at the leather chair Mal had sat in. “Sit down there.”

  The silent man was behind Parker. He turned away, heading for his chair in the corner, and Parker spun around, left hand extended, fingers rigid. The tips of his fingers jolted into the silent man's side, just above the belt. The silent man grunted and bent sideways, trying to breathe. Parker's right hand came across, balled in a fist, and clipped the side of his jaw, just under the ear. The silent man started to fall, and before he hit the floor Parker had the .32 out of his hip holster. He turned back and Mr. Carter was still reaching into his drawer. He stoppe
d when he saw the .32 pointed at him.

  Parker said, “Close the drawer.”

  Mr. Carter looked at his man on the floor and closed the drawer. Parker broke the .32 open and emptied the shells into his hand. The noses had been scored, to make them spread when they hit. He walked over to the desk and put the .32 on the green blotter. The shells rattled into the wastebasket.

  “You don't want me with a gun. I don't want you with a gun either.”

  Mr. Carter looked at his man again. “He's one of the best.”

  Parker shook his head. “No, he isn't. He lulls too easy.” He sat down in the leather chair. “We can talk now.”