They'd left Edgars in there with the cops, and the other six went outside to stand on the lawn. Parker came over and said, “You got that out of your system now?”
“I guess I do. I feel a lot better.”
“Don't do it anymore.”
“Not if I don't have to.”
“You don't have to club anybody. Watch them if they behave, kill them if they cause trouble. Nothing in between.”
“All right by me.”
“Good. Everybody set?”
Everybody said they were set. Chambers felt a small irritation, at being chewed out by Parker right there where everybody could hear, but he shrugged it off. Minor irritations couldn't bother him now. He felt good.
Parker had propped the tommy against the outer wall of the police station, and had unlimbered the walkie-talkie. Chambers looked across the street at the fire department building, waiting, and behind him Parker said, “Salsa. You set up?” His voice had an echo, tinny and small, coming out of the walkie-talkie on Grofield's back.
Then it was Salsa's voice, coming over both of them: “Set. I'm in a car on Raymond Avenue, facing out, right side as you are going out of town, one block in from that welcome sign.”
“Anybody come in since us?”
“Not in or out.”
“All right. Wycza?”
“Here.”
“We got police headquarters. Going after the firehouse now. If you see the prowl car, don't worry. I'll be driving it.”
Wycza laughed, and said, “Want us to start now?”
“Wait till we've got the firehouse and the telephone company. I'll let you know.”
“Right.”
Chambers had been fidgeting back and forth, standing in the darkness on the police station lawn. Now he said, “Come on, Parker, let's roll it. We don't got all night.”
“Don't be so nervous.”
“Then let's just roll, what do you say?”
“All right.”
The six of them walked over the lawn and the sidewalk and crossed the street, Chambers in the lead, the rifle held at a loose approximation of port arms. His face was sweating, making the hood stick to his flesh, but he didn't really mind that. Just so they were moving.
Too bad Ernie wasn't here.
Four big garage doors, painted red, across the front of the building in a row. To the right of them was the regular entrance, flanked by red lights. Like a cathouse; Chambers grinned under the hood, feeling his skin stretch.
Chambers and Parker were in the lead when they went in. A hall went ahead and then turned right. After the turn, it ran straight and long, but only the nearest fluorescent light was lit, leaving the rest of the hall in darkness. The first door at the right was open, spilling more light into the hall.
Two men in dark-blue uniforms had been sitting on opposite sides of a desk, playing cards. They stared, dropped their cards, and jumped clumsily to their feet. One of them kicked his chair over, getting up.
It was a room very similar to the Command Room in police headquarters, but a little smaller, with fewer desks, fewer pieces of electronic equipment, and less open floor space. Lined around the walls were framed photographs of groups of men standing in front of fire engines, some horse-drawn.
Chambers moved to the left of the door and sensed Parker moving to the right. This was the part he liked, moving fast and moving sure, moving like the pieces of a clock. Let somebody else make the plans; all Chambers wanted was to know his own part in it.
Parker was saying, “You don't have to raise your hands, you aren't armed. You, what's your name?”
“Dee-Deegan.”
“First name.”
“George.”
“And you?”
“Johanson, William Johanson.”
“They call you Bill or Will?”
“Uh, Bill.”
“All right, Bill, George, just pay attention.”
While Parker gave them the spiel, using their first names a lot, telling them how nothing would happen to them if they didn't try nothing stupid, Chambers moved around and pulled a chair out from a desk with his foot and sat down. He kept the rifle level, hoping one of these bastards would make a run for it or something; he'd do just like Parker said, he'd gun him down in a second. But he knew neither of them would try anything; both paunchy geeks in their fifties, scared so bad they had to change their drawers.
Chambers wasn't so sure about Parker. He was supposed to be sharp and cool and efficient and all that, but Chambers wasn't so sure. What was all this crap about the first names? Who cared what kind of first names these stupes had? It was a waste of time.
When Parker was done, Grofield and Phillips came up and hogtied the one named Johanson William Johanson, tying wrists and ankles and gagging him. Then Parker said to the other one, “How many men on tonight?”
“Fuh-four.”
“Including you two?”
“Oh no. I'm sorry. S-s-six.”
“All right, George, just relax. Nobody's going to hurt you. Where are the other four?”
“Down the hall. They're asleep, mister.”
“We'll wake them easy. Which room?”
“Last two on the left.”
“Thanks, George.” Parker turned his head and spoke to Chambers. “We'll let you know when it's clear.”
“Sure thing.”
Parker and the others went out to tie and gag the other four sleeping beauties, and Chambers said, sarcastically, “Okay, now, George, just sit right down there. Right there where you were.”
George sat down.
“What kind of card game was that, George?”
“Gin.”
“Gin. Is that right? You got any of that other kind of gin here, George? You know the kind I mean?”
“No, we don't. I'm sorry, we don't have anything like that.”
“That's a real pity, George.” Chambers grabbed the bottom of his hood, just under his chin, and flapped it, to get some air inside. “This is a real nice firehouse you got here, George,” he said.
“What are you people going to do?”
“Oh, now, don't go asking questions. Remember what happened to that curious cat.”
Chambers stretched, and then set the rifle down on the desktop beside him, where it was handy. He said, “You know what you're supposed to do, you get any kind of call, right?”
“Yes. I know.”
“Good boy, George. I sure do wish you had some of that other kind of gin.”
“I'm sorry. How—how long is this going to be? I mean, before you let us go.”
“Curiosity, George.”
“But what if there's a fire?”
“Why, we'll just toast marshmallows, George.” Chambers laughed, and stuck a hand up under his hood to wipe the sweat from his face.
Parker stuck his head in and said, “Clear. We're moving on now.”
“Have a good time, y'all.”
“We'll keep you posted. By phone.”
Parker went out again.
This was the dull part. From now on, just sitting and waiting, this was going to be the dull part. If Ernie was here, they could Indian wrestle or something. He should of asked to be put on the truck detail, instead of Wycza. Let Wycza sit here all night.
He looked at George, speculatively, trying to find a sign in George's face to indicate he might maybe try something pretty soon, make life interesting somehow. But there was no sense even hoping; George just wasn't the heroic type, that's all there was to it.
He stretched again. He wished he could take the hood off, but he couldn't. He'd taken one fall, and his picture was on file. A dumb fall. Him and Ernie, seventeen years of age for him and nineteen for Ernie, they were just razzing this clown with the tape recorder, down having old rumpots sing folk songs into it, and someway or other it all got out of hand, and when they were done they hadn't just beat the tape recorder in with lumber chunks like they'd intended, they'd beat the clown in, too. Then they had no more sense but to go right st
raight on home, and get picked up by the sheriff the next morning. Nobody much believed their story about stopping the clown from trying to rape some little girl that run away and likely too mortified to come forward and testify, but they stuck to the story anyway and got smaller sentences than they might of otherwise. Eight years apiece, for manslaughter. Out in less than three years.
There was a time, once, when three years in a state pen couldn't hurt anybody, but that time's long gone. Go look for a job, and the paperwork starts. When was you in the army? Why not? Where were you instead? What were you in the pen for? We'll call you if there's an opening.
Not all jobs were like that. Nobody cares what you did a while back if all they want you for is to operate a shovel or work in a harvest gang. Heavy work for low wages, all you can use.
There's more than one way to make a living. And if you want more of a living than you can get with a shovel, and if nobody'll give you a sniff at any sort of a job better than that, there's still ways to make a living.
Chambers stretched and scratched himself, and watched old George. That damn fool Ernie. Why take off after a sixteen-year-old chippy anyway? Who cares how willing she was?
Chambers sighed, and shifted position, and felt the sweat dribbling down. Too bad Ernie wasn't here.
3
Grofield heard background music. Always, everywhere he went. Sometimes lush and full, with a lot of strings. Sometimes rapid-fire, with xylophones and brass, that busy-Manhattan-street-with-yellow-taxicabs music. Sometimes strident, harsh, dramatic. But always music, in the air around his head like a halo.
Right now, next to Parker in the front seat of the patrol car, the music he was hearing was low, slow, like a heavy pulse beat; a bass drum, and a bass fiddle, and maybe a few other instruments, all low-pitched, pounding out a slow relentless beat, gradually building up.
Parker was driving, and wearing a hat he'd taken off one of the cops. The walkie-talkie was on the seat between them, and the tommy between their knees, barrel down against the floor, stock jutting up onto the seat. Grofield's rifle was in his arms, butt in his lap and barrel pointing up past his right ear. His walkie-talkie was on the floor between his legs.
Behind them, in the other car, were Phillips and Littlefield and Kerwin. The two cars drove over Caulkins Street to Raymond Avenue, and turned left. A block and a half up they saw the truck, but nobody in or near it. Grofield heard the music build up in tempo as they went by, rolling slow and silent, Parker's face all jutting angles in the green dashboard lights. Grofield turned his head to look at the truck, anonymous-looking truck, imagining the angle of the follow shot, the camera, having trailed up to now, now speeding, going past on the other side, keeping the truck always centered beyond the patrol car, and intercutting to the faces inside, Parker and himself.
He felt he ought to say something, but nothing came to mind. Nothing that wasn't banal, too damn typical of this scene. None of the really great playwrights had ever written this scene; the fifth-raters who had written it would all, to a man, put in his mouth at this point the line, “Well, this is it, boss.”
He remained silent.
Three more blocks and they turned left on Blake Street. The telephone company building was one block over, on the corner. Parker stopped the car, and the background music stopped, too, leaving a dramatic silence. Parker got out of the car, carrying the tommy but leaving the walkie-talkie, and Grofield got out on his side, strapped his walkie-talkie on, and picked up his rifle. The station wagon had stopped behind them, and the other three had got out. They'd all had their hoods off while riding, and now they put them back on.
The telephone company building was three stories high, made of the yellow brick that seemed to be standard around here for nonresidential buildings. The walk up to the door was flanked by flowers. There was a dim light beyond the entrance door, and lights behind four of the windows on the second floor left.
They went in without talking. The walkie-talkie on Grofield's back made a tiny jangling sound as he moved, barely loud enough for even him to hear it. That would be amplified on the soundtrack, serve instead of background music. He tried to walk so as to give the jangling a proper slow rhythm.
Inside, a globe hanging from the ceiling was lit, showing a hall, and a wide flight of metal stairs leading up. They went up, sliding their feet onto each step with small shushing sounds, to avoid any clatter, and at the top they saw a door with light behind the frosted glass.
They pushed open the door and went in, Parker first, Grofield after him, and the others behind. Parker said, “Stop, ladies. If anybody screams, I shoot.”
Three women. One at a desk, writing with a ballpoint pen. The other two on chairs before a long switchboard filling the right-hand wall, looking like a flat back computer. All three stared. Two opened their mouths, but none of them screamed.
Parker said, “All stand up. Move to the center of the room.”
The woman at the desk found part of her voice and said, “What are you men doing here?”
“Do as the gentleman tells you, dear,” said Grofield. “Don't interfere with the schedule.”
He watched the three women move uncertainly to the center of the room. The two operators looked terrified, period. The woman who'd been at the desk looked both terrified and indignant. But there wouldn't be any screaming, and there wouldn't be any running or anything like that. They'd behave.
Parker lowered the tommy and pointed at the woman from the desk. “What's your name?”
“Mrs. Sawyer.”
“What's your first name, Mrs. Sawyer?”
“Edith.”
“Introduce me to the other ladies, Edith.”
“I don't know what you have in—”
“Just tell me their names, Edith.”
One of the operators blurted, “I'm Linda Peters.”
“Thank you, Linda. What's your friend's name?”
The friend spoke for herself. “Mary Deegan.”
“Mary Deegan. Tell me, Mary, you related to George Deegan, over at the firehouse?”
“He's my uncle.”
“Well, he's in good hands, Mary. Just like you.”
Grofield liked to watch Parker work. See him before a job, or after, you'd think he was just a silent heavy, quick-tempered and mean, about as subtle as a gorilla. But on a job, dealing with any people that might be in the way, he was all psychology.
Terrify them first. Terrify them in such a way that they'll freeze. Not so they'll make noise, or run, or jump you, or anything like that, just so they'll freeze. Then talk to them, calm and gentle. Get their first names, and use the first names. When a man uses your first name, calmly and without sarcasm, he's accepting your individuality, your worthiness to live. The use of your first name implies that this man really doesn't want to harm you.
The fright to freeze them, and then the reassurance to keep them frozen. And it worked almost every time.
Parker was explaining it to them now, telling them all they had to know. He was telling them he was sorry two of them would have to be tied and gagged, but it wouldn't be for long. They were watching him, the three of them, hanging on his words.
That was another part of the psychology. Bunch them together right away, in a little group. It reassures them, to be in a group, and it cuts down the possibility of individual initiative. Each member of the group waits for some other member of the group to lead the way.
Parker even arranged the tying and gagging differently. Phillips and Littlefield brought over two of the chairs, took the casters off them so they wouldn't roll, and had Mrs. Edith Sawyer and Linda Peters sit down in them. Their ankles were tied to the center chair leg, their wrists were tied behind their backs, and the sponge-and-cloth gags were applied. Then Parker and the others left, and Grofield was on his own.
The operator still loose was Mary Deegan. Grofield said to her, “Mary, do you suppose there's a telephone book around here anywhere?”
“Well, yes. Of course.” Her frig
ht was fading, and she was now becoming bewildered.
“Good. Mary, I want you to get that book, and sit down at Ediths desk there, and copy down some phone numbers for me. Will you do that like a good girl?”
“The book's in the desk drawer.”
“Well, then, get it.”
She went over and sat behind the desk, and looked at him doubtfully. “It's all right for me to open the drawer?”
“Mary, you don't have a gun in that drawer. And if you do, you have more sense than to show it to me. Go ahead and open the drawer.”
The Score (Parker Novels) Page 10