The Score (Parker Novels)

by Richard Stark

  “Come on.”

  Chambers took a step, stopped, and said, “Rotten eggs. Smell it?”

  “That's your wine rivers. Sulphur.”

  “Real homey place.”

  They walked back up the road to the top and went into the shed where the others were. Grofield was there now, making everybody present. Parker looked at him and waited for him to say, “All fools in a circle.”

  But what he said was, “ ‘Come, Watson, come! The game is afoot!!’”

  “This isn't summer stock.”

  “Good old Parker. This Thursday, huh?”

  “This Thursday.” He turned to Littlefield. “All the cars stashed?”

  “Right. Six of them. Two each in three sheds.”

  “We better put the sides back on, in case anybody comes out here. What about the wagon?”

  “I put it down in the woods, off the road.”

  “Good.”

  Parker and Wycza and Salsa and Grofield went out and put the torn-down sections of wall back into place, hiding the cars inside. Two men would be leaving in each car, after the job, each car going off to a different destination. Wiss and Elkins would leave together, and Wycza and Phillips, Paulus and Littlefield, Chambers and Salsa, Grofield and Kerwin. Parker would take Edgars with him, pick up the blonde at Thief River Falls, and drive them as far as Chicago. After that, they were on their own; Chicago was where Parker would dump the Mercury.

  After they got the walls back up, and returned to the living-in shed, Parker found Littlefield and said, “One last trip to town for you. We need brown paint, to cover the truck.”

  “Right. What if I go in after dark?”

  “If you can find a store open.”

  “There's a hardware store I seen open nights in Madison.”

  “Good.”

  Parker dragged a couple of food cartons over to the table and sat down on them. “Deal me in,” he said. Behind him, Grofield was reciting, playing Falstaff and Hal both, Henry IV, Part I, Act 1, Scene 2.

  6

  Chambers brought the truck up at eleven-thirty, using the parking lights only. The rest were waiting for him in the darkness at the top. In the last three days, they hadn't seen a single stranger, afoot or in a car or even in a plane. They might as well have been the last people on earth.

  Parker and Salsa and Edgars carried machine guns—Parker had discovered, to his surprise, that Edgars already knew how to operate a tommy—and Grofield, Chambers, and Littlefield carried rifles. Salsa and Parker both also wore pistols, as did Kerwin and Phillips and Paulus and Wycza and Wiss and Elkins. Parker and Salsa and Wycza and Grofield had walkie-talkies strapped to their backs.

  Chambers was to drive the truck, Littlefield the station wagon. Phillips and Edgars and Grofield were to ride in the wagon, the rest in the truck.

  Chambers cut the parking lights as soon as he stopped the truck. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and full of stars. There was enough vague light to see by, sufficient for everyone to board.

  Six men climbed into the back of the truck and sat along the sides, bracing themselves for the bumpy ride to come. Paulus and Wycza and Kerwin on one side, Wiss and Elkins and Salsa on the other. The safe men's equipment was to ride in the station wagon, where it would get a less bumpy trip.

  Parker went over to the station wagon and said to Littlefield, “Remember, give us five minutes. Well run slower than you, you can catch up when we get to town.”

  “Right.”

  “Don't catch up before we pass the trooper barracks.”

  “I remember, Parker.”

  “See you later.”

  Parker went back to the truck, took off his walkie-talkie, and climbed up into the cab with Chambers. He put the walkie-talkie on the floor between his legs and said, “All set.”

  Chambers put on his parking lights again, and the truck jolted forward.

  It was seven miles to the secondary road, and they did it at a crawl, not because of the bumps but because of the bad visibility. Chambers leaned far over the wheel, peering out through the windshield at the dimly seen dirt road. Beside him, Parker lit a cigarette and sat quiet. The last few minutes before a job, he was always quiet, almost in suspended animation. He had no imagination for the few hours ahead, nor worry, nor anticipation, nor anything else. His consciousness worked at the level of recording the jouncing of the truck cab and the feel of the cigarette smoke and the darkness beyond the windshield.

  They got to the secondary road and made their turn, and Chambers sighed. He sat back more comfortably, switched on his headlights, and the truck picked up speed. After a minute, Chambers said, “You ever get scared, times like this, Parker?”

  Parker roused himself, and said, “No.”

  “You're lucky. I could use me a jolt of store-bought blended right about now.” He laughed, a little shakily. “If them streams would of been wine,” he said, “they'd be dry right now. You know, I can smell sulphur in this cab? This here's a good road, they'll be no problem coming back. Be light then, too.”

  Chambers talked on, working off nervous energy, and Parker sat silent beside him. They made the six miles to the highway and turned left. Up to now they hadn't seen any other traffic, but a mile along the highway they saw headlights in front of them. They came on, moving fast, and a foreign sports car raced by, looking to them in the cab of the truck so low and small it could have gone under the truck instead of next to it.

  “Maybe I'll buy me one of them,” said Chambers.

  Parker leaned forward a little bit and looked at the rearview mirror outside the right window. A way back, he could see headlights. “If that's Littlefield,” he said, “I'll crack his skull.”

  “Don't worry 'bout Littlefield. He knows what he's doing.”

  By the time they made the turnoff on to 2 2 A, the headlights had dropped farther back. They rolled along, right on the speed limit, and after they passed the trooper barracks—a squat brick building with yellow lights behind the windows, off to their left, surrounded by flat emptiness—Parker said, “Slow down a little now. Give Littlefield a chance to catch up.” The headlights of the station wagon were much farther back now, almost invisible.

  Ahead of them, on the right, was a sign. They came closer and the truck lights illuminated it:

  WELCOME

  to

  COPPER CANYON

  “Son of a gun,” said Chambers. “Son of a gun.”

  THREE

  1

  Officers Felder and Mason were on night duty in Copper Canyon's only patrol car. They rode along in companionable silence, looking for but not expecting to see violators of the city curfew. It was just a few minutes after midnight, and here and there lights were still on behind windows, but the side-walks were empty. The radio hissed like coffee brewing; at the other end, Officer Nieman had nothing to say.

  The prowl car was a Ford, two years old, painted light green and white, with Police written in large letters on the doors and hood and trunk. The dashboard lights were green, and there was a small red dot of light, like a ruby, on the radio. Officer Mason wanted a cigarette but couldn't have one, because Officer Felder, who was driving, was allergic to cigarette smoke. Officer Mason said, “What say we take a break? I could use a smoke.”

  “Let me swing down around by the west gate. George is on there tonight.”

  “Fine by me.”

  They were on Blake Street, east of Raymond Avenue. Officer Felder drove over to Raymond Avenue and turned right, and the west gate to the refinery was six blocks dead ahead.

  A few cars were parked along Raymond Avenue, as usual. Between Loomis and Orange Streets, against the right-hand curb, there was a huge tractor trailer parked. It was brown, all over brown. Officer Mason looked at it and thought to himself, Funny color for a truck.

  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He got one out, then got his lighter out. He was ready.

  They were almost to the gate when the hissing radio suddenly s
poke. “Officer Felder, Officer Mason. Officer Felder, Officer Mason.”

  Officer Mason looked at it in surprise. What the hell kind of way to talk was that? They were first-name basis, always. What the hell was this all about?

  He grinned and said to Officer Felder, “Old Fred's gettin' highfalutin.”

  “He's just kidding around.”

  Officer Mason picked up the microphone and said, “Yes, sir, Officer Nieman, what can I do for you, sir?”

  “Come on into the station. Something's come up.”

  “What's come up?”

  “Just get in here. Make it fast.”

  There was something funny in Officer Nieman's voice, some sort of agitation. Officer Mason said, “Okay, Fred, here we come.” He hung up the microphone again and said to Officer Felder, “Somethings sure got him upset. You hear his voice?”

  “I heard it.” Officer Felder had already made the turn into Caulkins Street, and was driving toward police headquarters.

  “That's a funny thing,” said Officer Mason.

  “What is?”

  “Kidding around one minute, then all upset the next.”

  “Maybe he wasn't kidding around. Maybe he got all formal and everything because he was upset already. Got rattled or something.”

  “Well, let's see what it is.”

  The police station was a modern building. It, and the fire department building across the street, had both been built five years ago, both with the same architect. They were built of tan brick, broad low buildings one story high, very similar in appearance except for the wide garage-type doors across half of the fire department building façade. Flanking the police station entrance were large modernistic faceted green lights, and across the street the fire department entrance was flanked by similar lights in red.

  Officer Felder pulled to the curb in front of the building, in the No Parking zone, one of the few in town. They both got out of the car and went up the cement walk past the well-tended lawn into the building. They entered upon a hallway, and the Command Room—as the architect had called it—where Fred Nieman would be, was to the left. It was a large room, with desks along one wall, and a counter in front of the area where the radio and booking desk were located.

  They went into the Command Room, and Fred Nieman looked at them from over by the radio. He didn't stand up or say anything or do anything. He offered them a weak and sheepish smile, and just sat there.

  A voice behind them said, quietly, “There's seven guns on you. Either of you make a single solitary move, you're dead seven times.”

  The two officers froze. Both of them thought immediately that it was some sort of gag, and both looked at Officer Nieman to find a clue in his face. But Nieman's face was pale and frightened and sheepish, slit by a nervous, ashamed smile.

  Footsteps sounded on the black composition flooring, coming from behind them, going to right and to left. Two men came around in front of them, both in dark work clothing, both wearing black hoods, slit three times for eyes and mouth. One of the two was carrying a Thompson submachine gun and had what looked like a walkie-talkie strapped to his back. The other one had a walkie-talkie, too, and carried a rifle.

  Mason thought, A war attack. Commies! But even while he was thinking it, he knew that wasn't it. This was something else. It might even be something worse.

  Another black-hooded man, this one with a rifle but no walkie-talkie, stood up from where he'd been crouched beside the radio, out of sight from the door, and said, “Okay, Fred boy, git on over there by your pals.”

  Officer Nieman got shakily to his feet and went around the end of the counter and came across the floor toward Mason and Felder. His face was pale, and shone with sweat under the fluorescent lights. A look of apology and shame was all over his face. Mason, watching him, thought Fred might even faint.

  A hand came from behind Mason and took the revolver out of his holster. Another hand unarmed Felder.

  The one with the machine gun said, “Listen close. For the next few hours, you got nothing to do but sit. You just sit, and don't get cute ideas, and you'll be all right. You.” He pointed the machine gun at Mason. “What's your name?”

  “Officer Mason.”

  “First name.”

  “Jim. James.”

  “All right, Jim. You, what's your name? First name.”

  “Albert.”

  “They call you Al, or Bert?”

  “Al.”

  “Okay, Jim, Al, turn around, and do it slow.”

  They turned around. There were four more of them back there, hooded, in work clothes, one with another Thompson submachine gun, one with another rifle, and two with revolvers. They were just standing there, pointing all that death at Mason and Felder.

  The spokesman said, “All right, Jim, Al, you've seen enough. Turn around again.”

  They turned around. Mason was trying to think, trying to figure out their game. What the hell was all this?

  The spokesman was saying, “Who's got the patrol car key?”

  Felder said, “Me. I have.” Mason was gratified to hear a quaver in Felder's voice; he didn't want either of his brother officers to be less frightened than he was, and he was terrified.

  “Bring it over here, Al. Hand it to me.”

  Felder did as he was told.

  “Now go back where you were, Al. The two of you, Al, Jim, get your handcuffs out. Reach them behind you. Don't turn around, Jim, just reach back. Now put your hands together behind you.”

  Mason put his hands behind his back, and felt the cold metal of the cuffs close around his wrists. He looked at Nieman's face and suddenly realized why Nieman had been so formal when he'd called in; he was trying to warn them.

  Mason said, softly, “I'm sorry, Fred, I didn't get it.”

  “Didn't get what?” It was the one who'd been hidden behind the radio, stepping forward.

  Mason closed his mouth. Now he'd done it!

  The one with the rifle and the walkie-talkie said, “‘All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players.’ Fred's seen too many movies. He tried to signal these two by calling them by their last names.”

  “Son of a bitch!” The one who'd been hidden behind the radio came closer and raised the rifle and slashed at Fred Nieman's head with the butt. Nieman ducked away, raising his arms, and the rifle butt thudded into his shoulder, knocking him down.

  The spokesman said sharply. “Cut that out! We need him.”

  “You hear what he tried to pull?”

  “It didn't work. It never does. Fred, how's your shoulder?”

  Nieman sat on the floor, holding his shoulder, and didn't speak.

  The one who'd hit him said, “You better answer, boy, double quick.”

  “It's all right.”

  “Good,” said the spokesman. “All right, Al, Jim, come on over this way. Al, lie down between these two desks here. Facedown, that'll be more comfortable, with your hands behind you that way. Jim, you over here between these two desks.”

  It was tough to get down without his hands to help him. He dropped to his knees and was stuck, until hands came along to lower him more or less gently the rest of the way. He felt his ankles being tied, and then a new voice said, “Open your mouth, Jim.”

  He opened his mouth. A piece of sponge was stuck into it and then a cloth tied around his head, covering his mouth, to keep the sponge in.

  He couldn't see anyone now. All he could see was desk legs and chair legs and the wall. But his ear was pressed against the floor, and he could loudly hear them walking around.

  A new voice said, “All right, Fred, get back to the radio. You just sit there, and if a call comes in from anywhere, you handle it like it was a normal night. And don't try anything else cute. I'll know if you do.”

  It was a familiar voice to Mason, the first familiar voice to come out from one of those black hoods. It was an arrogant voice, and an angry voice, and a familiar voice. Who? Who the hell was it?

  All at once
he knew, and his terror doubled. He heard the footsteps receding and then the familiar voice saying, “Now we're alone, boys. Just you three and me. And this tommy gun.”

  Edgars! It was Edgars!

  2

  Chambers felt all right now, all the nervousness gone, all the jumpiness out of his system. All he'd needed was to get started, get into this thing. From the second he'd clubbed that smart-ass cop, every bit of jitters just washed right on out of him.