Deadly Edge: A Parker Novel

by Richard Stark

  The University of Chicago Press, Chicago, 60637

  Copyright © 1971 by Richard Stark

  Foreword © 2010 by Charles Ardai

  All rights reserved

  University of Chicago Press edition 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  19 18 17 16 15 14 13 12 11 10 1 2 3 4 5

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-77091-8 (paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-77091-5 (paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-77296-7 (electronic)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Stark, Richard, 1933–2008.

  Deadly edge : a Parker novel / by Richard Stark ; with a new foreword by

  Charles Ardai.

  p. cm.

  Summary: It begins with a rock concert - Parker and his fellow thieves are ripping off the box office - and then moves to a mysterious problem - colleagues turning up dead.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-226-77091-8 (pbk. : alk. paper)

  ISBN-10: 0-226-77091-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Parker (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Criminals—Fiction. I. Ardai, Charles. II. Title.

  PS3573.E9D43 2010

  813’.54—dc22

  2010007659

  eISBN: 9780226772967

  Information about the complete list of Richard Stark books published by the University of Chicago Press—and electronic editions of them—can be found on our website: http://www.press.uchicago.edu

  Deadly Edge

  A Parker Novel

  by

  RICHARD STARK

  With a New Foreword by Charles Ardai

  The University of Chicago Press

  Praise for Richard Stark and the Parker novels:

  “Super-ingenious, super-lethal. . . . Parker is super-tough.”

  —New York Times Book Review

  “Westlake’s ability to construct an action story filled with unforeseen twists and quadruple-crosses is unparalleled.”

  —San Francisco Chronicle

  “Parker is a brilliant invention. . . . What chiefly distinguishes Westlake, under whatever name, is his passion for process and mechanics. . . . Parker appears to have eliminated everything from his program but machine logic, but this is merely protective coloration. He is a romantic vestige, a free-market anarchist whose independent status is becoming a thing of the past.”

  —Luc Sante, The New York Review of Books

  “Richard Stark’s Parker . . . is refreshingly amoral, a thief who always gets away with the swag.”

  —Stephen King, Entertainment Weekly

  “Elmore Leonard wouldn’t write what he does if Stark hadn’t been there before. And Quentin Tarantino wouldn’t write what he does without Leonard. . . . Old master that he is, Stark does them all one better.”

  —L.A. Times

  “Westlake is among the smoothest, most engaging writers on the planet.”

  —San Diego Tribune

  “One of the most original characters in mystery fiction has returned without a loss of step, savvy, sheer bravado, street smarts, or sense of survival.”

  —Mystery News

  “The Parker novels . . . are among the greatest hard-boiled writing of all time.”

  —Financial Times (London)

  “No one can turn a phrase like Westlake.”

  —Detroit News and Free Press

  “Whatever Stark writes, I read. He’s a stylist, a pro, and I thoroughly enjoy his attitude.”

  — Elmore Leonard

  “Stark, a pseudonym of the venerable and wildly prolific author Donald E. Westlake, is a mystery connoisseur’s delight. . . . A tremendously skillful, smart writer.”

  —Time Out New York

  “Donald E. Westlake writes as Richard Stark when he wants to see how far he can push it.”

  —Marilyn Stasio, New York Times Book Review

  “Richard Stark is the Prince of Noir.”

  —Martin Cruz-Smith

  Parker Novels By Richard Stark

  The Hunter (Payback)

  The Man with the Getaway Face

  The Outfit

  The Mourner

  The Score

  The Jugger

  The Seventh

  The Handle

  The Rare Coin Score

  The Green Eagle Score

  The Black Ice Score

  The Sour Lemon Score

  Deadly Edge

  Slayground

  Plunder Squad

  Butcher’s Moon

  Comeback

  Backflash

  Flashfire

  Firebreak

  Breakout

  Nobody Runs Forever

  Ask the Parrot

  Dirty Money

  Contents

  Part One

  Part Two

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Three

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Part Four

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  This is for Joe Gores,

  for the hell of it

  Foreword

  By the time Donald Westlake, the prolific soul behind the “Richard Stark” pseudonym, sat down to write Deadly Edge, Slayground, and Plunder Squad, he’d already written a dozen books about the professional thief Parker and his too-often ill-fated attempts to separate institutions and individuals from their valuables. After dreaming up a dozen exploits in nine years for the same protagonist, the author could have been forgiven if he’d begun to repeat himself or if the series had started to run out of steam—but what happened was precisely the opposite.

  Following a quartet of novels whose thematic unity is suggested by their similar titles—The Rare Coin Score, The Green Eagle Score, The Black Ice Score, The Sour Lemon Score—and which began to soften the edges of the Parker character (principally by adding a love interest), Westlake decided to take Parker into harder, darker territory. The result was as bracing as a slap across the cheeks.

  Penned over the course of just two years (a period during which Westlake wrote at least three other novels as well), Deadly Edge, Slayground, and Plunder Squad reinvigorated the Parker character, confronted him with some of his most memorable crises, and went a long way toward establishing the Parker series as a landmark of crime fiction. When you ask people who revere the Parker books which ones they admire most, they’re likely to name one of these three, or else the epic sequel to Slayground, Butcher’s Moon. After Butcher’s Moon, Parker wasn’t heard from for twenty-three years—it was as if the character had finally burned himself out with the sheer intensity of these last four grueling jobs. But what a way to go.

  Reading the Parker novels—especially if you are fortunate enough to read several back-to-back—is a little like watching a jazz musician at work. The performance begins with a familiar melody, the unadorned restatement of a basic theme; but then the performer cuts loose, interpreting, elaborating, inverting, transforming, improvising. Donald Westlake had an almost frightening ability to sit down at the keyboard and just let his fingers go, extemporaneously unfolding his stories seemingly in real time with breathtaking invention.

  At a certain level of abstraction, of course, the Parker novels are all the same: there’s the planning of th
e job, the assembling of the crew, the execution of the heist, the escape with the loot, the betrayals and double crosses, the tracking down of missing money, the remorseless elimination of men who pose a threat, the drive for survival at all costs. And yet, Westlake somehow manages each time to assemble these elements into a thoroughly new book. Bix Beiderbecke famously said he never played a solo the same way twice, and neither did Westlake. It may be the same song each time, but all the notes are different.

  Consider: Deadly Edge opens with Parker and crew robbing a rock concert of its cash take, Slayground with Parker and crew robbing an armored car. Plunder Squad’s opening scenes describe two heists being planned: one an attempt to rob a department store of its cash take and one to rob an armored car. A trained eye might be able to detect some similarities here. But all it takes is reading a few chapters into each to discover just how different these books are from one another. Deadly Edge turns out to be the story not of the heist, but of a pair of psychopaths who begin killing off the members of the heist crew one by one. Slayground becomes a claustrophobic tale of survival when Parker gets trapped in a shuttered amusement park with a team of gangsters hunting for him. And Plunder Squad unfolds into a melancholy, almost autumnal reflection on the burdens of Parker’s chosen profession, as one job after another disintegrates before his eyes, and a rare moment of mercy he showed in a previous book comes back to haunt him. It would be hard to imagine three more different books.

  In fact, these rather similar starting points actually generated four different books, since Westlake took the opening scene of Slayground almost verbatim from a book he’d written two years prior (also under the Stark pseudonym), The Blackbird. After completing the armored car robbery, Parker and his sometime partner in crime Alan Grofield wind up in a car crash as they attempt to escape. Parker gets away on foot while Grofield is captured by the authorities. In The Blackbird, we follow what happens next to Grofield as he’s taken to a hospital and coerced into a mission for a secret government agency; in Slayground, we instead follow Parker as he desperately hides out in that deserted amusement park and undergoes a one-man-against-twenty ordeal that makes the movie Die Hard look like, well, a walk in the park. Westlake’s deriving two completely different novels from the same opening scene is a bit of virtuoso finger work that demonstrates the author’s playfulness, as well as his interest in formal experiments. (Another example: in Plunder Squad, Westlake has a scene in which Parker meets detective Dan Kearny, a character created by fellow mystery writer Joe Gores; Gores included the same scene, told in reverse from Kearny’s perspective, in his novel Dead Skip the same year.)

  Part of the pleasure in cracking open a Parker novel is that you never know just what you’re going to get. You know you’re in the hands of a master storyteller and in the company of a fascinating character—but that’s all you know and all you can count on. In a genre too often known for predictability, it’s exhilarating not to be able to guess what’s going to be on the next page until you turn it and see.

  Yet amidst all these twists and variations and surprises and reversals, one thing remains constant: Parker. He is unchanging, stable and steady and calm, unflinching and unfailingly professional. He doesn’t say much—Parker is more a doer than a talker (although when he does talk he is persuasive)—and doesn’t spend a lot of time on contemplation or introspection. He is a man of action in the most literal sense, and he acts decisively, relentlessly, and ruthlessly in pursuit of his goals.

  In some ways, Parker is the embodiment of the Protestant work ethic, the consummate hard-toiling craftsman whose craft just happens to be robbery. He is intensely practical and self-reliant. (From Slayground: “He’d walked into this himself, it was up to him to walk back out again himself. He understood that, and he didn’t worry about it.”) He despises “wasted movement.” It “bother[s] him…to do illogical things”; he is “troubled…that all [is] not rationality.” He has no patience for the frivolity and functionlessness of pop music and modern art and, though the man likes a certain amount of sex in its proper place, he disdains sexual excess. He is careful, calculating; he has a purpose for everything he does; he doesn’t indulge himself or others, or respect those who do. He is not, as far as we can tell, a happy man. He’s the best at what he does—but one wonders, does it give him any pleasure?

  This question would baffle Parker. Parker doesn’t do things for pleasure—he does them because they’re his job, because they’re what he has to do. It’s true that some of the elements of domesticity that began to humanize the character in the preceding four books ripen somewhat in these three. Like any traveling salesman or long-haul trucker or touring-company actor, Parker has a home that he leaves for long stretches at a time but then returns to, to recharge. And he has a partner who waits for him there, eager to help him release his stress. (Slayground again: “Lately, a thaw had taken place. He liked knowing this house was here, in an isolated corner of New Jersey, with Claire waiting in it for him…. He enjoyed it.”) But the enjoyment he permits himself is of the narrowest sort: he likes Claire, but he makes it clear he doesn’t need her. Even when they’re together, Parker’s actions seem to spring not from desire but merely a will to accomplish his ends. Claire thinks of him as “unfeeling,” noting in Deadly Edge that “even when he was with her, he was in some manner away from her; he was the most locked-in man she’d ever met”; when she tells him, “You can relax here,” his internal response—unspoken, of course—is, “There was no answer to that. He was on guard everywhere.” And as it turns out, rightly so: within 100 pages of this silent comment, their sanctuary-like home will be invaded by one of the series’ most frightening villains, with bloody consequences.

  Parker occupies a world of constant threat, where style counts for nothing. (Deadly Edge: “That was the edge Parker had; he knew that survival was more important than heroics. It isn’t how you play the game, it’s whether you win or lose.”) If he is constantly on guard, it’s because he has to be. He’s chosen a dangerous life, and only someone with his capacity for turning off emotion, thinking clearly and quickly, and getting the job done—whatever job it is—could possibly survive the gauntlet Westlake makes him run.

  Perhaps this is why the Parker series continued for so long and commanded such passion from readers; perhaps it’s why, even after twenty-three years of silence, Westlake ultimately found it irresistible to return to Parker and bring him back for another eight novels (and surely would have written still more if not for his untimely death on New Year’s Eve, 2008). Parker is tough enough and smart enough and good enough to handle anything that’s thrown at him, even by someone as ingenious as Donald Westlake. In Parker, Westlake met his match—and the clash of wills between the two, with its suggestion of irresistible force versus immovable object (Could Donald Westlake invent a situation so dire that even he couldn’t get Parker out of it?), makes for a set of stories that leave us still whipping through the pages breathlessly today, four decades after the white-hot blaze of their composition.

  CHARLES ARDAI

  PART ONE

  Up here, the music was just a throbbing under the feet, a distant pulse. Down below, down through the roof, through and beneath the offices, down in the amphitheater shaped like a soup bowl, the crowd was roaring and pounding and yelling down at the four musicians in the bottom of the bowl. The musicians scooped up the roars coming in at them, pushed them through electric guitars and amplifiers, and sent back howls of sound that dwarfed the noise of the crowd, till the roaring was like a blast of heat on the face. But up here it was no more than a continuing throb in the gravelly surface of the roof.

  Parker raised the ax over his head and swung it hard down into the tarred surface of the roof. Thop went the ax. Parker and the two men beside him heard clearly the sound of the ax, but even as close by as the man on lookout at the fire escape, the sound was lost.

  “That’ll take all night,” Keegan said, but Keegan was a nay-sayer and no one ever listened to him. />
  Parker lifted the ax again, swung it again, twisted it slightly as it struck, and this time a touch of more amber color showed through the tar and gravel: wood.

  Parker moved to the left, so his next slice would be across the first two, and lifted the ax again. He was a big man, blocky and wide, with heavy hands roped across the backs with veins. His head was square, ears flat to the skull, hair thin and black. His face had a bony rough-cut look, as though the sculptor hadn’t come back to do the final detail work. He was wearing black sneakers, black permanent-press slacks, and a black zippered nylon jacket; the jacket was reversible, light blue on the other side, and under it he was wearing a white shirt and a blue-and-gold tie. Cheap brown cotton work gloves were on his hands, and on the hands of the other three.

  It was spring, a dry but cloudy night, the temperature in the low fifties. It was ten minutes past midnight; down below, the Saturday midnight show was building toward crescendo. The final show at the old Civic Auditorium. Monday the wreckers would arrive. From up here on the roof, the poured-concrete flying-saucer shape of the new auditorium could be seen on Urban Renewal-cleared land half a dozen blocks away.

  Keegan said, “I don’t like it up here.” A stocky man, just under average height, Keegan had thick dry brown hair and the outraged expression of a barroom arguer. He, too, was dressed in dark clothing; he kept forgetting about the gloves on his hands, starting to put his hands in his pockets—each time he would suddenly remember, look startled, and then shake his head in irritation with himself.

  Each time Parker swung the ax now, more wood showed. There was over an inch of tarpaper and tar and stones on top of the wood, and the ax blade was getting streaked black with tar. After half a dozen swings with the ax, Parker had exposed a chopped-up section of wood about the size and shape of a footprint. After his seventh swing, Briley said, “Let me have a whack at it,” and Parker handed over the ax and stepped back out of the way.